Paradise for Lesser Men
by xxsewnlipsxx
Summary: The chantry is destroyed. Hawke and Fenris find solace on an abandoned farm. MaleHawke/Fenris
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Paradise for Lesser Men**

**Rating: T**

**Summary: The chantry is destroyed. Hawke and Fenris find solace on an abandoned farm where the villagers are prejudiced against everything their relationship is. MaleHawke/Fenris**

**A/N: Thanks for reading. Review please.**

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><p><span>Chapter 1<span>

Fenris has been following Hawke for nearly three days in the cold rain when they come upon the farm. It is a dilapidated place, brimming over with old ghosts. The fields are muddy, most of the plants drowned and buried. Bones of dead animals linger in the grass, crunching under their feet. Winding vines crawl across the silos and the crumbling ruins of what used to be a fence. Though the paint is chipping, and the porch seems to have caved in on itself, the main house is the only part that offers any sort of shelter. Hawke heads straight for it and climbs inside without fear.

Instantly the stink of death makes Fenris wrinkle his nose in disgust. The rotten boards creak as Hawke cautiously walks over them. Moldering furniture is littered throughout the house, and Fenris finds himself unconsciously identifying rooms: kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, living room. When they approach the stairs, Hawke slowly draws his blade and kicks bits of broken concrete from the wood as he ascends. Fenris follows with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

There are three rooms on the top floor, and all of them are empty. A few toys sit in one, a pink rabbit abandoned, a few blocks scattered. Dead rats lay in the hallway. All the furniture is soaked with rain. Mold grows on every last surface. Both of them are satisfied that it is safe and dry enough for the night, though. Hawke huffs and sheathes his blade, brushing past Fenris to head back downstairs. Their fingers touch faintly, and Fenris doesn't miss the tired smile on his lover's bloodied and rain-soaked face.

First, they gather firewood. Hawke is merciless in tearing sheets of wood from the very walls. Every time the house gives a shudder, Fenris tenses. The creaking ruin manages to hold up as they take what they need from its carcass and light a fire. Soon a soothing orange glow fills the larger family room. Hawke shuts up the door to the upstairs level to save heat. He shoves the ugly loveseat and tattered chairs in front of the other door so as to create a pocket of warmth and life. The window stays open, though, even as it drips water inside. The smoke would suffocate them otherwise.

Hawke takes off his soaked and bloodied armor gracefully and leaves it next to the fire to dry. It seems they are both still covered in gore even after all that time wandering in the rain. Bits of skin cling to Fenris's long blade. Blood has dried beneath his fingernails and around his eyes. It is in his hair, flaky as the fire warms him. He even tastes it in his mouth. Hawke is no better, but he doesn't seem to be uncomfortable. On the contrary, he shoves his backpack against the wall and leans against it, propping his feet up near the fire. His deep blue eyes scan the house's ceiling with his careful gaze, taking in every detail.

"What ghosts lie here, I wonder?" he asks into the silence, and Fenris is alarmed at how much the sound frightens him. It seems to him that they haven't spoken in days, haven't communicated by anything but touch and looks for an eternity.

Fenris clears his throat. He is still standing, arms crossed as he absorbs the delicious heat from the fire. His fingers and toes are frozen. "I do not know, Hawke." It was rhetorical, he is sure, but he answers anyway. He does glance around though and think on it. How many did this house once contain? Did children run through the halls with smiles on their faces, playing with blocks and pink bunnies? Did laughter still ring in the collapsed dining room?

Hawke kicks his bedroll toward Fenris, knocking his sword slightly askew. The sound is deafening in the silence filled only by the cracking wood as it is devoured. Fenris jumps, and Hawke lets out a soft chuckle. "Sit down and stay awhile," he says easily while wiping off one of his daggers with a wet cloth. "I don't plan on moving tonight."

Reluctantly, like a puppet pulled on strings, Fenris forces himself to sit. He doesn't like this old place. As Hawke said, there are too many ghosts. They whistle through the halls, and the rain outside seems less and less friendly by the minute. Thunder roars across the plains. He is not accustomed to doing nothing. They are always on the move: killing mercenaries or murdering bandits or angering the Viscount …something. They always have an objective. For the first time in a while, it seems they have none save stay alive.

"Relax," comes that gruff voice, Hawke reading his thoughts again. "We won't be staying for long." Fenris edges closer to the fire, staring at the warped boards beneath his feet and skinny thighs. In the dark, his markings are all the more brilliant, his hair stark against his skin. He shivers.

He knows better than to ask Hawke where they are going. They have no destination. The Templars are out for Hawke's blood after the massacre left behind in Kirkwall, and escaping the chantry's long arm is the first of priorities. On the way to the rotted old farmhouse, they passed a village of some sort with inns begging for coin and many shops shut up in the wake of the storm. Fenris wonders just what town it is, and if they might buy supplies from it before they move on. Both are running low on food.

"You're shivering," Hawke notes dully, not staring at him. Fenris glances down at his hands, and they are trembling. How does this human know him so well? He shakes his head back and forth, throwing sparkling droplets tinged with red on the floor. His skin his drying, but it is still glistening with rain. His armor is speckled with water. Naturally, he is cold.

A beam falls on the other side of the room, stirring up dust. Fenris glances over at it, but Hawke pays it no mind. He is so intent on his dagger, wiping it clean. The cloth comes away pink, and he sets it aside, tossing the weapon beside the rest of his drying equipment. He has always loved that blade. It was Carver's favorite. Suddenly Hawke is standing. He climbs to his feet in one of his smooth, effortless movements and dusts off his cotton pants.

Fenris watches the defined hips as they come closer, and strong hands are pulling him up into a standing position. "What are you doing?" he asks even as he allows himself to be moved around. Hawke's unbuckling things from him—his armor, his weapon. These things are cast aside toward the fire where the blood can crack and dry on them, rusting the shining metal. But he trusts Hawke, and Hawke would never harm anything of Fenris's.

"Your skin is like ice," Hawke whispers in his ear when he's stripped down to simple underclothes dried with crystalline salt from the ocean. Hard fingers run over his back, under his shirt, lacking that gentle demeanor. He frowns even as he's wetting his lips.

"I'm filthy, Hawke," he says, and it's a poor excuse. He knows it. Teeth graze the skin under his ear, tasting blood no doubt. So much has happened, so much death. The hatred of that place was palpable, men slaughtering men. Brothers against brothers. He wants more than anything to feel a physical connection to this world again, to feel loved as he has only in Hawke's presence.

As he expected, Hawke is only goaded on further. "Hush," he whispers in Fenris's ear, hot breath sending chills over his spine. "Let me touch you." It's all Hawke need say, and Fenris gives in. They move away from the danger of the fire and make love on that hard, unforgiving floor. Pleasure rinses pain from his heart and flesh, the present shoving memories from his mind. Love replaces hate, sweat and kisses washing away the blood and rain. As he arches up into Hawke's ministrations and feels that tenderness pulsating inside of him, he feels alive amongst so much death.

He wakes up in the morning to the chirping of birds outside and an earthy scent pervading the air. Light streams in over the old boards, shaping the room into a much more welcoming space. He sits up to realize that he's lying on a bedroll and covered with a thick, cotton blanket. Someone has also dressed him, and he feels the pleasant ache of a night well spent in his spongy bones. It is humid in the room and very hot. He shucks the blanket off his thin hips and stands in one fluid motion. Off in the distance, he can hear more birds and a strange, rhythmic pounding.

After fixing his gauntlets in place, he sheathes his sword on his back. The fire was long ago put out by Hawke, doused with a bucket of rainwater, he assumes. The ashes are a smeared, black tar on the floor. He ducks out of the cave of a house and outside where the wind is just a bit harsher. There is a chill in the air, as well, and the vibrant green grass is doused with diamonds. He walks barefoot through the grass, following the sound. It is coming from the side of the house, and he frowns curiously at what he sees.

It's every cheesy romance novel that Isabela has ever read. Hawke—the handsome love interest—is dressed in his cotton pants, large black gloves, and a sleeveless, white shirt that appears to have been recently bought. He's sporting a hammer and beating away at the siding of the house. Fresh wood, again freshly purchased, is dumped in a pile beside him. Winding muscles flex beneath his shirt, and his forehead his beaded with sweat. He looks as though he has been working for hours. He is covered in dust and dirt. Fenris is almost waiting for a beautiful woman to slide her arms around his waist with water to cool him off.

Hawke sees him and hops down from a makeshift stool, letting the hammer swing at his side. He blinks at the heated sun, squinting, before shooting Fenris a cocky smile and hooking his thumb in the waistband of his pants. "I thought you'd never wake up," he comments, tilting his head.

"What are you doing, Hawke?" Fenris asks, getting straight to the point. How much coin, he wonders, was wasted on that wood? What sort of tactical plan is this?

"I'm killing time," the human shrugs, bending to toss the hammer against the side of the house. It falls with a thump, and Hawke's moving to a stump where there's a mug of what Fenris can only assume is water. He watches as the throat contracts, swallowing. Fenris feels the ribbon around his wrist get a little heavier, and he glances away. Hawke sets the mug down. "Why? Does this bother you?"

"Not particularly," Fenris says. "We do have limited resources, though." He looks pointedly at the pile of wood.

Hawke follows his gaze. "What? We've got a fortune to spend on food and supplies. How much do you eat, anyway?" he teases, pressing a large hand to Fenris's stomach momentarily before pulling back. The touch is scorching. "Besides, if we run out of money," he bends down to retrieve the hammer, "I'll just save someone's gorgeous daughter from a tree. We'll be set again in no time." He shrugs and pushes black hair from his face, leaping onto the stool and continuing his pounding.

Fenris knows that is the end of it. Hawke needs a project always. When they were in Kirkwall in the beginning, it was the expedition. Then it was the house. That achieved, he had to find a lover. With Fenris sufficiently hooked, he fought the qunari. When Fenris left, it was protecting his mother. That backfired, and he tried to stop the Templars from murdering all the Templars. Eventually winning Fenris back seemed to be top priority. Now that they were on their own, together, Hawke didn't have anything to focus on.

He smiles for a moment and leans back against the side of the house. It vibrates with Hawke's insistent hammering. He can remember those awkward days when Hawke suddenly looked at him with renewed interest. It was as though Hawke was blocking him out until that day, realizing suddenly that he was there. The smile that spread on his face as he visited just after Orsino's rally was both incredibly attractive and cocky. Nothing can get to Hawke's confidence. He never second-guesses himself. He is easily side-tracked, though. Fenris doesn't take that personally. Doesn't he always come back?

For a moment, Fenris watches him work. There is something painfully attractive about Hawke. There is such a tempered strength in the way he moves and a lazy arrogance that draws women in. He moves like a feline sometimes, sprawling in chairs, putting his feet up on expensive tables as he keeps eye contact with the owner, leaping over buildings, and carefully shoving Fenris into walls to ravish him in secret. It never stays secret for long. Besides that, though, Hawke is very apathetic to things that don't require his immediate attention. He's a terrible flirt and procrastinates at a constant rate. Aveline used to joke that he wouldn't have stopped the qunari until they got to his front door had he not been there at the beginning.

As if he knows that Fenris is thinking about him, Hawke winks at him from the corner of his eye and adjusts his glove. He leaps down from his perch and grabs another piece of wood. It appears as though he's trying to restore one of the fallen walls. He's already barred most of the gaping hole, and he only has a few more boards to go before it is covered completely. Pieces of splintered debris lay in a pile several feet behind him. He must have yanked the bad boards out.

Fenris wonders faintly how long he has been going at this.

"So, you want to help?" Hawke asks. "You might want to put that sword down, though. And take off your armor. It gets hot out here fast." He pauses thoughtfully before smiling. "And yes, I might just be trying to get you out of your clothes."

"That's not what I was thinking," the elf offers softly, eyes roving over his smooth appearance. There is stubble growing on his chin. He hasn't seen it since those awful weeks underground in the Deep Roads where no one had time to shave.

"You know, I thought we could go into town for breakfast, actually," Hawke announces suddenly, dropping the hammer. He extracts his fingers from the black gloves, letting them fall onto the stump next to his water. "Did you see it when we came in?"

"Yes."

"It's where I bought all the supplies," Hawke crosses his arms. "They've got a nice tavern there, and I don't really feel like dried fruit. I'm starving." He shields his eyes and stares at the sun. "There's a river near here where you can get all that dried blood off you. I don't think you arriving like that would be the best way to impress the neighbors."

Fenris glares at the dried blood beneath his fingernails, and he can feel the oil in his hair. He knows he's dirty from sleeping on the floor for most of the night, and Hawke's insistence that they have sex the night before did not improve his hygiene. The human holds out his hand, palm up, and Fenris has to sigh as he laces their fingers. Sometimes the romantic side of Hawke can get the best of both of them. Whatever they are—friends, companions, trusted confidants—they are lovers, as well. Hawke doesn't let him forget that. Ever.

They walk for several minutes in silence, and Fenris watches the lay of the land. The field is much bigger than he thought. The fence seems to go on forever, and he finds himself unconsciously noting places where it requires repair. Hawke senses his distraction and does a little distracting of his own, working him into a melted mess by the time they tumble down the hill into the river. Their clothes are shed on the bank, and Hawke does less washing than dirtying. Finally, though, Fenris feels clean as he steps from the water and pulls on his pants and armor again.

It is beautiful, he notices. The river is wide but shallow. Trees surround the entire area in a dense curtain as if made for the privacy of young lovers that can't wait, and Fenris smiles at the comparison. Is that what they are after so many years? Still young lovers that must touch, must kiss, must feel that intense pleasure? Hawke catches him an embrace as he gets out of the river, pressing their soaking bodies together again. Fenris can't help the shiver it causes. He hopes it is a good thing that Hawke can still do this.

Eventually, Hawke lets him go. With delighted laughter at Fenris's flushed face, Hawke takes his hand and leads them back to the house. He retrieves coin and his weapons, turning from the loving man made of tempting beauty and brimming with affection into the dark stranger that Fenris remembers from Kirkwall. A part of him thrills at the thought that he is the only one who sees Hawke prancing around half-naked, soaking wet, and laughing without restraint.

The town is quaint as they approach. It is little more than a settled bit of land near the forest, but there are shops and at least a dozen houses. For a moment Fenris is reminded of Lowtown just outside the Hanged Man. There isn't any sort of bustling life here, though. The citizens are all sleepy as they stumble from their shacks and out into the open. Women wear gray rags and men are dressed in brown work clothes. There is no color, no life. All of them are pale as if the rain has washed away the blood in their faces. The streets are muddy as they make their way to the tavern.

Inside is a sweltering heat and a crowded drunkenness. The evening has started early for some of these men. This isn't a port, so they aren't the sailors that Fenris is used to. No, these are hardened bounty hunters and travelers, mavericks in their own right that have come for a warm bed and food. Despite these lingering fugitives, there is a sort of civility present. The paint isn't peeling. The floors look clean. The woman that comes to seat them is a lovely, bird-like creature with large eyes and a quick smile.

They sit in silence, Hawke nursing a tankard of water. He's watching, waiting, and listening. For all his bravado and attitude, he is quite the patient man. Fenris knows that he is categorizing everything, breaking down the meanings behind this establishment. He is learning about them, and Fenris doesn't interfere. He thinks of the blade pressed against his spine, the freshness of these fields, the blazing sun outside covered in thick, puffy clouds. There is a peace in this little village, but it is not a place he wishes to stay.

"Tell me, Hawke," Fenris says suddenly, interrupting the other man's thoughts. "Why are you really fixing that old farmhouse?" It can't be another long-term project like he thought. Hawke surely doesn't want to stay for so long. They are in danger. Hawke is in danger.

"You caught me," Hawke shrugs as the waitress places breakfast in front of them. "We've been together for a while, Fenris, and I thought it was time to settle down. This is a great place to raise kids. We'll adopt a human, an elf, and a half-breed just so no one can think we're showing favor to any one race, and we'll grow old together on that wretched farm. I'll even buy a few chickens." The woman nearly drops the tray and glances at the both of them. Hawke flips her a sovereign and shoos her away.

Fenris can't believe he has said that in front of the entire tavern. "You are a glutton for attention," he whispers conspiratorially. A lot of the hardened workers are looking at them. Two women are blushing in a corner.

"And you are worrying too much," Hawke accuses.

"In this backwater town? You are in danger already, and you take these things too lightly."

"You don't take them lightly enough," the human smiles at him and reaches across the table to touch the back of his hand. "Calm down. I like building things. The thought of bringing back some life into that old place appeals to me. That's it." He's pulling away, his eyes going dark as he begins listening to some of the chatter, chewing almost absently at the dry meat while Fenris picks idly at his meal. When he's finished, Hawke orders more ale for him but doesn't touch a drop.

The waitress clears the dishes away, and they are outside again. The day has heated up, and Fenris thinks they must have spent more time in there than he would like. Hawke is in a hurry, taking long strides back to the farmhouse. Fenris is used to this brisk pace, and it makes him smile at the normalcy of it. How many times did he run after Hawke in the beginning, trying to save someone who was desperate to put his or her life in danger? Too many, it seems. Not enough.

Once they are tromping through the muddied fields again, Fenris feels a sense of calm. Hawke slows and even reaches back to take his hand, squeezing lightly. He often does little things like that, quick and daring touches that make Fenris's heart soar. He flexes his hand and keeps his head down. In some parts of the world, an elf and a human in a relationship might be hanged. In some parts of the Free Marches still, a man that loves another man might be hanged. Hawke knows that. Fenris wonders if they are perhaps trying too hard to tempt fate.

Soon they are working. Hawke uses some of that new lumber to finish hammering up the side of the house. When it's finished he smiles at Fenris and takes his breath away in a kiss that leaves his heart thudding against his rib cage. After clearing away the dead and rotted wood by tossing it into a nearby burn pile that is getting even larger as the day goes on, Hawke invites him to the old, rundown barn just a few yards away.

The barn needs less work than the house, made more of steel and metal rather than wood. Somewhere in the back, it turns into a stable that can house at least two horses in separate pens. The other stall is caved in on itself and filled with muck and wet straw. They find the bones of a dead dog rotting near the entrance. It reminds Hawke too much of his slain mabari, and they bury it in a makeshift grave by the woods.

Finally, Hawke is standing in the barn and rubbing his gloved hands together. "I can see us staying here for awhile," he announces, and Fenris nearly drops the saddle he is holding in his hands.

"Does my opinion matter?" he demands impetuously and a little childishly. He sound small, like a whining wife.

"More than mine sometimes," Hawke says easily, bracing his foot on one of the stalls and climbing up the skeleton of a wooden ladder. There seems to be nothing but straw in the loft. A few bits of it fall into Hawke's hair. "If you want to leave, we can."

"You would leave for me?" he tests, crossing his arms and leaning against the other stall. Hawke is like a monkey, all sinewy muscle and flexibility. He hauls himself up easily and sits on the edge of the loft with his legs dangling. "That is all it would take? Just my word?"

"Well, I do love you, you know," Hawke says distractedly, flopping back into the hay and reaching up. His hand disappears into some sort of alcove above his head, and he's feeling around in there clear to the juncture of his elbow. Fenris is momentarily stunned by the words, because he has never heard them before. If Hawke realizes his slip, he doesn't acknowledge it. Instead, he pulls his hand back and frowns, leaping down from the loft and onto the ground. He dusts his hands together. "Damn."

"What?" Fenris clears his throat. He wonders how Hawke could have seen that alcove from the ground as he approaches the spot where his lover was standing.

"I was hoping for some sort of secret box buried in the ceiling, clues to what happened here," he laughed at his own folly. "Maybe there would be a painting of a family. Instead there's just a few dead rats and a lot of hay. It does _look _like a secret cache, though." Fenris glances and thinks that, yes, perhaps it does. An arm winds about his shoulders and pulls him close, kissing the side of his head.

Always touching, always close, heat, tenderness, affection.

Instead of melting, the elf remains stiff in his arms. "Would that change things?"

"No, I suppose not," Hawke admitted. "A little history is all I'm asking. What happened here? Why is it abandoned to such an extreme? Farmland like this is precious. There are plants growing all over the place. The house could have once been beautiful, so why is it shut up with the windows boarded and the doors rusted? And why, I wonder most of all, does every inch of this place reek of _death_?"

Fenris starts at these words because they are so very true. Every inch does stink of death, of decay and rot. He hadn't noticed the boarded windows, but he is certain Hawke is telling the truth. The land does seem fertile. Flowers grow in abundance and vines wrestle everything to the ground. It is all true. A small wind blows suddenly, and he feels uneasy. Could something atrocious have happened here that the veil is torn? Why does no one come to claim this property?

"Look at you getting goose bumps," Hawke teases him. "I'm sorry. I know you've had enough of magic to last a lifetime. So have I."

A cold flash of Anders helping them defend the mages pops into his mind. Hawke is not ruthless, but practical. Anders fought for his life by helping them, and Hawke wouldn't let him become a martyr. No, he is a murderer on the run just like they are.

"Hmm, I wonder what Bethany is doing," Hawke hums idly, following Fenris's line of thought.

"We are staying here, then," Fenris draws his attention with quiet words, gently extricating himself from the sweltering heat of Hawke's arms. Such idle affections are only a burden during a humid day.

"For awhile," the human admits. "Until the townspeople rise as one to slay us. Can you imagine the scandal? Two men, an elf and a human, as lovers? I don't know much about small communities, but I'm pretty sure that's a double sin."

Fenris frowns. "They could seriously harm us."

"Really?" Hawke shoots him a skeptical glance and moves to flop down into some moldy pile of hay. "Slay us? The killers of a High Dragon, murderer of the Arishok—I'll take credit for that one—and the victors over the templar order? That's cute." Lazily, he folds his arms beneath his head and slings one of his legs over the other. Raising an eyebrow, he waits for a counter argument.

Fenris hates when Hawke stares at him like that. He swallows and walks closer. "Perhaps not, but they do know where we sleep. They could come in the night. Numbers can sometimes beat skill. You are arrogant, and you throw yourself into the fray too often. What if you are injured while working on the house? You'd be weak, and the weak make easy targets. That combined with the element of surprise could be our downfall."

"Look at my little general," Hawke laughs out loud. "I concede. You win. That all makes perfect sense." The elf doesn't see it coming. Hawke keeps perfect eye contact with him as he slides his foot around Fenris's ankle. "But you are forgetting one tiny detail…" he trails off.

"What is that?" Fenris rolls his eyes.

With a jerk of his leg, Hawke topples the smaller man. His hand darts out to grip Fenris's wrist and jerk him down into the hay. In moments, Fenris is pinned, slim chest beneath the human's. The acrid stink of dust and hay rises up to meet him. Hawke's lips ghost over his own. The human smiles. "I'm undefeatable," he whispers, and Fenris shivers.

It has always been like this. Hawke touches him, and he melts. Hawke has the libido of a teenage boy with the wisdom and stamina of a man much older than that. Fenris blames it some nights on the fact that he doesn't remember his sexual life from before, and he hungers. He blames it on the fact that Hawke is the first one to touch his markings in a tender way, with all the reverence of a man at worship. Sometimes he doesn't blame it on anything and just revels in this love.

Fenris puts his gloved hand on Hawke's chest, exerting little pressure. He likes the feel of their bodies pressed together, like two broken pieces that are finally reunited. "Nothing scares you, does it?" It's a silly question. Of course nothing does. Hawke's smile becomes just a little sad and world weary. He brushes snowy hair from Fenris's dark skin.

"Yeah, there is one thing," he murmurs, eyes lidding. "Losing you."

He trembles as he reaches for Hawke and crushes their mouths together. It doesn't matter that he had him the night before or that morning. It never does. Their thirst is unending, and Fenris thinks that's a good thing. The world is a place of pain and anger and hatred. Everyone should have at least one place to lay down his or her burdens and just be at peace.

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><p><strong>Short. Less than ten chapters. Maybe more than five. Thanks for reading. Review please.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: Paradise for Lesser Men**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: The chantry is destroyed. Hawke and Fenris find solace on an abandoned farm. MaleHawke/Fenris**

**A/N: Thanks for reading. Review please.**

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><p><span>Chapter 2<span>

It rains that night, and they stay in the barn. The water just makes the damp smell of hay and death and earth even worse, but Fenris doesn't really notice. They burn some of the scarce wood to keep warm, but it's mostly Hawke's smoldering arms rather than the flames that keep Fenris from shaking. The elf sits in his lap contentedly, the back of his head resting on the human's clavicle. Hawke caresses his arms, tracing the lines on the side of his neck with a heated tongue. The affection is lazy, and there's no danger of it turning into something more. Both are tired from the day's activities, and Fenris drifts into an uneasy sleep as Hawke keeps watch.

In the morning, he finds himself still wrapped in his paramour's arms. He almost flushes at the thought of being seen by passing travelers or one of the townsfolk. After a few minutes of blinking and rubbing the sand from his eyes, he tries to wriggle free. Hawke's grip tightens on his waist, however, and the human laughs as he firmly holds the elf in place.

"You're not getting away that easily," he murmurs. "Where do you have to go to that it's so urgent anyway?" The fire is still smoking at their feet, and he can hear birds chirping in the loft. The ground is wet beneath them, and the room is becoming humid. It is still early in the morning if the pale light spilling in is any clue. Fenris puts his hand on Hawke's thigh, using him as leverage to get up.

He doesn't get far. Hawke's fingers slide up his chest and shove him to the ground, quickly swallowing any protests with a deep kiss and a wandering hand. He can taste hot breath in his mouth, their limbs tangling comfortably. Large hands plunge into his hair, angling his chin back. "Stop," Fenris says, but it's a weak protest. There's a pleasant buzzing in his limbs, and lying like this gives him a zinging pleasure that is absolutely undeniable. Hawke doesn't force their embrace to go any farther, though. He places his ear against Fenris's chest, careful of his weight, and goes still.

"Ah, I could stay like this forever," Hawke hums, idly toying with a strand of hair. Fenris's heart gives a jolt, and he knows Hawke hears it by the impish smile pulling at his lips. In the beginning, their relationship was about sex and dominance. The feelings came later and in a rush so thrilling that it left them both a bit breathless. Hawke was careful with admittance to his love at first, though. He had not even said the words until yesterday in the barn.

Fenris smoothes back a bit of Hawke's unruly hair. There is a peace in this, he thinks. During the Templar's seize, Hawke asked him if he would miss Kirkwall when they left. It was a sort of joke, a jest to lighten the mood as they trudged wearily toward the next point of slaughter. He remembers lifting his chin, meeting those concerned eyes with his own obsidian ones, and saying, "You are my home."

"Where do we go, Fenris?" Hawke's voice suddenly interrupts his thoughts. His eyes are dark, and he sits up on his elbow, balancing without putting weight on the elf. "Antiva? Orlais? Ferelden? Where do we go?" It is a rare moment of reality crashing down, of clarity. Hawke holds so much on his shoulders.

"Are you despairing, Hawke?" Fenris asks, hand coming up to touch his cheek. The stubble scratches his rough palm, his thumb resting just under endless eyes. No, his champion never despairs. If there is a person in the world that does not lose hope, it is Hawke.

The human sighs and kisses his fingers, and the mask is forming again. The weariness falls away in place of a plastic smile and artificial mirth. Or maybe it's not. Maybe it's just a trick of the light that Fenris sees it in the first place. "Ignore me. I'm just tired."

"You don't know what to do now," Fenris nods. He understands. In Kirkwall they had purpose. Here, they are just floating like flotsam in the wind. Merely existing. "Neither do I."

Hawke groans. "That is not a reassuring thing to hear. It just makes me feel the pressure all the more." He's suddenly serious again, and he kisses Fenris's lips. "I love you. I know I said it yesterday, and the look on your face was worse than if I'd just told you that I was secretly sleeping with Anders."

Fenris feels his body tense up, and the ground is suddenly too cold on his back. He hates the sound of the birds; they are intrusive. He hates the pale light across Hawke's face, the shadow it causes just at his nose and around his eyes. Love? He knows he loves Hawke. They don't speak the words, but there are a lot of things they don't say. Fenris was taught his entire life to be quiet—remain invisible, speak only when spoken to. It is hard to break old habits.

But Hawke is reading his mind again, and those eyes are forgiving him for being silent. "I know," he whispers intimately against the press of silken lips. "You've had a hard life, and this is foreign to you."

"Yes," Fenris wets his lips, closing his eyes. It's cold, and he realizes that Hawke's heat and weight are gone. He's too far away, staring at the fire, one knee bent and his arm crooked around it. His fingers are pressed against the tender flesh of his eyelids as if he is in pain. Fenris sits up on his elbows, curling in on himself without realizing it.

Instinct, desire, love: in Hawke's company he has come to understand these things at least.

"I can't pretend to know what it's like to be a slave," Hawke murmurs, opening his eyes to meet the elf's tentative gaze. "You've gotten mad at me for trying, but I understand that it's a hard life. Do you…do _you _understand when I say I want to make up for that? Do you know that I hate myself for dragging you here when you were just beginning to call someplace home?"

There is a long silence, and Fenris hates himself for not being able to placate Hawke. Words are not his specialty. He doesn't know what to say to make him feel better. So he says nothing, and the deafening lack of response sounds like a denial. Hawke sighs and glances away from him.

"I want to give you things," he chuckles, pulling that same smile. It doesn't touch his eyes. "I want to buy you gifts and celebrate your birthday. Give you books now that you can read."

Memories flash before Fenris's eyes of warm nights when Hawke held him and taught him the words. Strange symbols had meanings. That was back when the rooms of that towering mansion smelled of incense and Leandra's enticing perfume, when they would sit and talk for hours with goblets of wine, and the entire world seemed to be draped in crimson and gold. That was back when Hawke dared not touch him as a lover even when Fenris was too drunk to go home. That was back when he would wake up in the morning and find Hawke asleep on the floor, a gentleman tending to an ill friend.

Fenris clears his throat. He knows he has to say something. More than that, he wants to. The words come, bubbling up from somewhere within his heart. "I don't need books, and I don't need expensive clothes. I don't even need a house. For years…for years I lived on the road. This," he gestures vaguely about himself, "I don't mind. As long as we stay together…I don't mind."

The effect these simple words—and not too terribly romantic either—have on Hawke is phenomenal. The tension bleeds from his broad shoulders, and the toothy smile reaches his eyes. The crease in his brow softens, and he slinks to his feet. He offers Fenris a hand.

"One day," Hawke promises as he pulls him up. "We'll have a house full of my Ferelden dogs and a library of books .That I swear."

Maybe. Fenris doesn't answer him even as he's pulled into a quick hug. Suddenly they're moving again, and Fenris feels the warmth of fingers holding his hand. The sun is blinding as they step outside even as the day is overcast. Hawke doesn't make idle promises that he has no intention of keeping. If it is within his power, Hawke will build that library for himself. He'll adopt a thousand puppies. He'll write the books if he has to. The thought makes Fenris smile.

After their fairly intimate conversation of earlier, Fenris wants to keep some semblance of distance between them. Already he is attached too much to Hawke. Each moment on this dreadful farm seems to pull them closer, sealing them together in a more permanent way. Fenris isn't sure he minds, but the intensity of Hawke's gaze troubles him. There is the same love and affection and wry amusement, but beneath that is a layer of pain as thick and shining as scar tissue. Hawke is hiding something from him.

Eating breakfast is comfortable. They don't speak, and soon they are out fixing the house. Fenris is forced to take off his gauntlets and his armor. Wearing only the clothes of a commoner, he feels almost like a house servant. It's a thought that quickly passes. Mostly he feels small, especially when standing next to his human partner. The extra bulk always made up a bit for his petite exterior, filling in the gap somewhat. When they are both dressed down, the difference between elven and human physiology is striking.

To his credit, Hawke surprisingly keeps his mind on the task at hand rather than whisking Fenris into some dark corner to have his fun. As the sun reaches the highest point in the sky, they have finished rebuilding at least one side of the house. All it needs is paint which Hawke promises to buy in the marketplace. They eat a quick lunch of dried meat and set to work on carrying out the spare lumber inside the house out near the river to be burned. Fenris despises this work. There are rusted nails and dangerous fungi clinging to the bits of wood. More than one that is overturned contains a large spider or a mouse.

When they've sufficiently gotten rid of the deteriorating planks, they begin to haul out the furniture. This is harder, and Hawke laughs while Fenris swears. It takes teamwork to carry most of it because the leather and cloth has become harder and heavier with the passage of time and water damage. Hawke insists that they carry it to the river as well so as to easily contain the fire. All of it is piled near the bank, and then both of them have to trudge back to the house to fetch the next piece. They remove all of the furniture in the small room they stayed in the first night, and Fenris lights the fire to watch it all burn.

It's sunset by the time they are finished. The sun is just sinking below the horizon, and a chilling wind is coming from the north to shake the trees gently. They almost appear to be laughing. The darkness spreads a variety of dark violets through the woods. Fenris feels filthy. He's covered in the grime of rotted wood and dirty water. His gloves are torn, and his upper arms are scratched. All that lifting has left him soaked in his own sweat, and he shivers in the cool breeze. Yet he feels somehow satisfied, like he has done some good. Hawke appears over his shoulder with their backpacks and tosses them against a tree. The sticks he has in his hand disappear into the blaze.

"This is going to take longer than I thought," Hawke laughs a little breathlessly. The reflection of the fire in his eyes is dazzling, the warm glow gilding his handsome features and stroking his eyelashes with gold. With his pale skin, he appears a specter. A phantom.

It is Fenris that reaches out to touch him, to affirm that he is real. This is all real. They are alive, and they are going to stay that way. His elegant fingers tentatively curl around Hawke's bicep, and the human's gaze immediately flickers toward the elf.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Hawke tells him, making no move to embrace him at all. In fact, he almost appears nervous. It's strange, this sudden shift, and Fenris's confidence falters.

"I think I have," the elf murmurs and glances away almost in shame. He lets his hand fall, but it hardly makes it back to his side before the human catches it and intertwines their fingers. A spark of heat travels down the length of his spine. Hawke is reaching for his other hand to wind it casually about his neck. Lips go to Fenris's ear, all silk and heated breaths. Hot air. Scolding pleasure as Hawke backs him up into a tree.

"Don't be afraid to touch me," he whispers. Fenris unlaces their fingers and instead wraps his other arm around Hawke's neck. The human's hands slide down his sides, gripping his hips. Is that his thundering heart or Hawke's? Maker, when does the intensity fade? Will the flames ever die just a little? He can't take this intoxicated feeling. The world is melting away, and he should be used to that by now. These kisses that make him drunk are so natural between them, but he can't halt the effect. He's drowning, and he doesn't mind anymore. But those are words that Hawke's whispering in his ear. The sound is deafening yet so quiet, sensual and beautiful. "I love you," he says, and Fenris wonders faintly why he didn't say it in Kirkwall. Isn't it so obvious?

He is too tongue-tied to answer, and Hawke is devouring his mouth anyway. He can't reply. Murmurs from a distant life filter through his haze as they usually do, only adding to the dizzying delirium. The crash of waves, breaking china, mumbled words. He can smell the incense and magic of Tevinter. Women are laughing at a party. There are trumpets and the cheer of a crowd. Mostly there is Hawke. The rest doesn't matter, and he digs his fingernails into his lover's upper back to ground him. This is where he is. Tevinter is long behind him. This is home.

His shirt is gone, and he doesn't feel it being shucked off of him. It's in a pile somewhere, and the heat of the fire is too much. The blaze combined with the scalding tongue trailing down his chest makes him break out in a sweat. He's too hot. The wind isn't cold enough. It barely takes the edge off, but he's clings to Hawke all the more. This source of heat he wouldn't let go of for the world. Hawke's hands are so gentle with him, drawing lazy circles around his navel and under his shirt. There isn't enough friction.

A ghostly laughter echoes in his ears, and he knows Hawke is teasing him. When is he ever really serious? Only in short bursts, it seems. The tongue slips lower, down his stomach. Fenris opens his eyes suddenly, and he didn't know they were closed. Hawke is kneeling, strong hands bracing his hips against the tree. The back digs irritatingly into his back, pressing into the skin. He's peppering kisses over the elf's navel, and Fenris tries to breathe. Lovingly, he slides his fingers into black hair. Like satin. Hawke is deftly removing his belt, and it falls to the ground. In the scarce light, he can see the Hawke crest gleaming against verdant weeds.

Heat engulfs him, and he didn't think he could feel any warmer. He groans aloud, and Hawke squeezes his thigh almost in a reassuring way. He doesn't need reassurance. There is nothing better than this. Nothing better than Hawke. Pleasure shoots up his body like lightning, and he digs his nails into Hawke's skull. The skin moves, and Hawke chuckles, sending the vibrations into his very core. Just when his bones become jelly and pliant, just when he thinks he's about to collapse, Hawke pulls back and kisses him roughly.

A silvery string of saliva connects their mouths, and Fenris is panting. He puts his hand on Hawke's chest, bowing his head forward to catch his breath. A hand cups his cheek and caresses, teeth pulling on the lobe of his ear. There's the faint, pricking feeling of hard metal digging into his skin. Hawke's still wearing his dagger, though the rest of their armor rests in the house. Gnawing on his collarbone, the sting of teeth breaking skin. Blood is dribbling down his shoulder, and their next kiss has the electric tang of mortality.

Hawke pulls back almost completely, keeping Fenris at arms length. He laughs, and there's a flush on his face. Fenris thought his eyes gleamed while they were fixing the house, but now they are positively sparkling with mischief and exhilaration. Hawke cuffs him under the chin gently, drawing his attention. "Help me get this off," he whispers, and it's such an erotic request. The very promise of what comes next makes Fenris swallow noisily and slide his hands under Hawke's shirt.

Very compliant, Hawke allows him to tug the simple garment and toss it away from the glow of the fire. Fenris pauses, though, remembering the human's earlier words. _Don't be afraid to touch me. _It seems like an invitation, and he runs his thin fingers over Hawke's abdomen. The muscles line every last inch of him, though he's not overly large. Fenris draws close and bites at the juncture of his shoulder, repeating the injury that was inflicted on him. Hawke winds his arms around Fenris's waist and allows it.

Slowly, they explore in the dark as the sun falls ever closer to the earth and the moon begins to rise. It's the slowest they've probably ever gone, Fenris realizes. His desire is straining, and he finally kicks off his own pants and stands bare beneath the sky. The breeze is chilling on his naked body, but the human keeps him warm. Hawke removes the rest of his clothes soon after and catches his lover's hand. They're moving backwards, and Fenris can feel the soft, spongy grass beneath his feet. The earth is cold under his calloused toes. Hawke kisses his fingers as he pulls them both down to the ground. Dirt presses into Fenris's back, but they are flipping over. The elf is straddling Hawke's hips, and they're kissing again.

The romance and physical gratification sparks between them. Fenris arches his back and Hawke enters him, destroying all the barriers. All doubts are gone in that moment when even the stars pale in wake of the glory of a union between lovers. Sweat-slicked and burning with hunger for each other, neither really last long. In the afterglow, Hawke holds his lover close and traces lazy patterns on his back, following the dipping, winding lines of lyrium branches injected beneath his pliable flesh.

When Hawke falls into a fitful sleep, Fenris extracts himself from their mess of moist limbs and pads toward the river. Without even thinking about the cold, he dives in and scrapes his fingers on the bottom. The splash is small, contained, as he thought it would be. When he surfaces, he is trembling from the paralyzing temperature. Smoke still rises from the pile of ashes, and he can use what is left of the light to see as he wades closer to the bank. Using only his hands, he wipes most of the grime of the day from his skin.

While he is bathing, there is a moment that makes him pause. It must be his old training that allows him to hear it. Beneath the crackle of breaking wood and the rustle of swaying trees, he hears the faintest of noises. He can't place it, but it seems familiar to him. Slowly, he raises himself out of the water and backs up toward the fire. It's almost like a stirring of leaves, a twang of an arrow being released—a triggering noise that whispers with the smallest inflection of urgency: _Danger. Beware._

Almost sluggishly, he yanks on his clothing and pats Hawke's pants down for his dagger. It's there, hidden among the grass, and he trains his eye on the woods with it raised in defense. Wolves? Bears? Humans? All he once knew was instinct. He has come to trust it. The wind whistles through, but the sound does not come again for quite some time. Just when he is beginning to feel foolish, he hears it.

It's directly behind him.

Fenris whips around and immediately realizes what it was. The soundless beat of padded paws, a quiet exhale, a lolling tongue. He is staring straight at one of the greatest of predators, and the irony of his name comes calling. In a sliver of pure moonlight, its fur is shining like quicksilver. Golden eyes the color of the smoldering sun glare at him from a deep-set face and ears pricked up in alarm. It is a huge animal, the girth of it clearing most mabari. Fenris feels himself step protectively in front of Hawke and grip the blade with all the more conviction.

The wolf tilts its head at him in a manner that could be called curious. He senses no malevolence from this creature, but wild animals are dangerous. If anything, it seems to be bored. Dipping its head once, it scratches at the ground and takes a step forward. Fenris holds his ground, meeting those brilliant golden eyes with his own dark ones. What is that there? They are speckled with a deep brown color near the iris, and there is something intelligent in the way it stares at him. His heart is beating savagely against his ribs. He's fought wolves before. Why does this so unnerve him?

It yawns and takes a few more steps. Each strand of fur seems to have been dipped in starlight. There is a luminescence hanging around it. As soon as it reaches the fire, though, the animal lifts its muzzle and sniffs. Then it jumps back as though startled and runs off. The hindquarters disappear between the trees, shadows overtaking the glowing skin.

Fenris is the one that jumps when a hand touches his calf. He turns around to see Hawke sitting up, his eyes glued to the spot where the wolf just was. They both watch for a moment before Hawke meets his gaze. There's something troubled there, as though he too was unnerved by the encounter with the creature. Hawke pulls Fenris down to the ground and gently uncurls his fingers from around the hilt of the blade.

"Hawke, we should—"

"Don't worry," the human sighs in his ear, wrapping his arms around Fenris's waist. "He won't be coming back tonight."

Fenris's brow creases. "'He'?"

"Well, I don't often see them, but it looked too big to be female, don't you think? Besides, only males travel alone." It makes sense, but Hawke isn't telling him everything. He slides out of the imprisoning arms and finds the tree where his backpack is. Hawke frowns. "Where are you going?"

"Back to the farmhouse," Fenris answers simply. "There may be more."

"I told you he wouldn't be back tonight," the human says while getting to his feet. He's searching for his pants, and Fenris cocks his head suspiciously.

"How do you know that?"

Hawke doesn't even falter. If he is hiding information, he's good at it. He leans down and snatches his pants from the grass, slipping them over his thin hips and tying the drawstrings. "I don't know. I just got the sense that he was frightened of something. Didn't you?"

The answer comes almost forcefully into his mind, as if someone put it there without his permission. _Yes…_

"I suppose so," Fenris grumbles, making an awkward gesture as if to say he doesn't want to talk about it anymore. The animal did run off rather quickly when he came upon the fire. Fire is supposed to keep the predators away. It makes sense even if the story rings strange with Fenris. Hawke doesn't appear to be lying either. He looks genuinely confused as well.

Despite Hawke's complaints that they need not go back to the farmhouse, he follows Fenris in the dark toward the desolate ruin. What protection he thinks he can find there, the elf doesn't know. He just has the sudden feeling that being out in the open is dangerous. He doesn't want to sleep under the stars. It's like his old paranoia. He needs the reassuring feel of a solid wall at his back, his eyes on the only entrance. When Hawke tries to console him, he shakes away. He knows he's being an impudent child, but he doesn't want reassurances. There is something wrong about this place. The wolf has shaken him.

Inside, Fenris adopts a protective sitting position against one of the far corners. Both windows above his head are boarded shut. With a sigh, Hawke sits down near him but not touching. He props his head up against his pack and draws his blades close, falling asleep in minutes. Fenris has much more trouble. The wind outside seems unfriendly. Even the gentle burning of the fire they left behind makes him wary.

The rest of the night passes without incident, and in the morning the easy camaraderie between them is back. Hawke makes breakfast, and Fenris eats without a word. Their silence if comfortable, but Hawke doesn't try to touch him. Perhaps he's finally gotten enough. Almost immediately, they get to work. First of all, Hawke goes out back to continue boarding up the sides of the house while Fenris remains in the front. He carts armful after armful of the collapsed porch to the fireside near the river. Soon there is just a dark patch of dirt where the old one used to be and a few shards of collapsed roof. The entire entrance is bare.

A few hours later, they are both drenched in sweat and need to cool off. Instead of jumping into the river like Hawke suggests, they go into town for more supplies and food. This time the hovels are much more inviting. There isn't as much mud clogging the streets, and some young women are out and about. Children run in the streets, tripping one another and playing games. The shopkeepers haggle steep prices and gossip vigorously. Hawke stops at a large townhouse that is apparently the place he bought wood before.

The man that greets them is human but short. His beard is gray and trimmed close to his face. He is entirely bald, and he seems friendly. Nevertheless, Fenris lingers near Hawke's shoulder like a protective guardian. "Welcome back," the man exclaims cheerfully, thrusting out his hand.

Hawke shakes. "Thanks. I was hoping to buy some more of that wood."

"Of course," the old man eyes Fenris carefully. "Same kind as the last time?"

Producing a pouch of coins, Hawke nods. "Same kind. Can you have it delivered by tomorrow at the latest? We're in a sort of a hurry."

"I don't doubt it," the shopkeeper shook his head. "You're trying to fix up that old farmhouse on the edge of town, right? I have to say you two are brave to go there. People in this town have said it's been haunted for years. Mages say there's a tear in the Veil or something like that."

"A tear?" Fenris asks.

Startled, the old man glances at Fenris. He seems hesitant to address him directly but ultimately decides it would be rude not to. "Yes, a tear. That old place suffered a lot. They say an entire family was torn to shreds by wolves one night. Rumor is they were harboring an apostate."

"Violent death like that can rupture the Veil," Hawke agrees, shooting Fenris a fierce look. As casually as possible, he drifts away from the counter and toward the tools hanging on the walls by rusted nails. The prices are scribbled below them on paper tags.

"So," the old man hesitates, "are you two going to be living there? Is it just you and your servant, Serah?" He is speaking to Hawke, and Fenris wants to laugh. If there is anyone more uncomfortable with the notion of having a servant, it is Hawke.

"He's not my servant," Hawke shrugs, and Fenris swallows heavily, unconsciously ducking his head to hide the tattoos on his chin and neck. He wants to yell at Hawke for being so stupid, as if a two strange men living on a farm in the first place is not odd enough.

"Oh," the old man clears his throat.

With a smile, Hawke turns around. "He's my sister's servant. She'll be joining us shortly. Once the house is fixed up."

The relief is almost palpable in the air. Fenris lets out a sigh right along with the shopkeeper. The old man laughs. "Oh, you are a tricky one, Serah. I suppose you've heard the rumors about you two?" He's at ease now.

"No, tell us," Hawke pushes, slightly nudging the payment toward him from across the counter. As if he has forgotten about it, the old man looks down and snatches the bag away to dump the coins in his own purse beneath the counter.

"There are rumors that the two of you are…lovers. Intimately involved, Serah, but you must forgive the people of this town. Stranger show up, and they want to talk."

"I understand," Hawke pushes away from the counter. It appears they are leaving, and Fenris is grateful. He doesn't like this atmosphere. Even though the man is being kind about it, there is an undeniable threat underlying all of it. "The wood?"

"Yes!" the man clears his throat. "I'll have it delivered tomorrow morning."

Once they are outside, Fenris can breathe again. He almost expects Hawke to do something drastic like kiss him in public or declare his love. Instead, he offers a weary smile and trudges off in the direction of the food stalls. He buys plenty of dried, traveling food. Fenris glares at it as if it has insulted him, and the woman that is selling the food laughs at the look on his face. She is an older, plump woman with only five teeth in her mouth.

Eventually they have all they need. The sun is just past the highest point in the sky, and the rest of the day is promising. Fenris is like Hawke. He suddenly wants to see this project finished. The thought of breathing even a little bit of life into a dead thing like that appeals to him as well. As they set off, he finds himself almost exhilarated at the thought of continuing.

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><p><strong>See any typos or errors? Let me know. Thanks for reading. Review please.<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: Paradise for Lesser Men**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: The chantry is destroyed. Hawke and Fenris find solace on an abandoned farm. MaleHawke/Fenris**

**A/N: Thanks for reading. Review please.**

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><p><span>Chapter 3<span>

"A tear in the Veil," Hawke murmurs quietly to himself. He is seated on the loft with his leg resting on the broken ladder beneath him while the other dangles. In his hand is a half-eaten apple. The sun is hot, and they have taken a break from working. Fenris is leaning casually against the wall beneath him. He glances up through his snowy hair when Hawke speaks. "And wolves eating an entire family at the bidding of an apostate."

"It sounds like a children's story," Fenris snorts dismissively, but he tenses. He has read books of old houses that, upon being rebuilt, are haunted. There is one in particular of a mansion in the marshes of Ferelden that was rebuilt twice and burned down. The ground is still sacrosanct according to some.

Worriedly, Hawke raises his eyebrow. "Fenris, what kind of children's stories did your mother tell you?"

"That is not the point," the elf dismisses. He stands straighter and moves with acute precision into the middle of the room. "The point is that it sounds wonderfully fanciful and dark, like all myths made to entertain drunk patrons." Standing beneath Hawke with his head cocked back to look at him, he raises an eyebrow. "Surely you realize that."

"I do," Hawke nods. "I also realize that it could be true. We've heard and lived through stranger stories. Really, Fenris, Rock Wraiths? Slaying a High Dragon? Me killing the Arishok in one on one combat? What about you finally achieving your revenge after all that time? Don't those sound like fantastic myths? Too good to be true?" He has a point, and Fenris gives him that by lowering his eyes to stare at a rat digging frantically through a pile of hay.

"Even if it is true," the elf articulates carefully, "we shouldn't stay here trying to fix the past. You are in danger, as I've said. The whole of Kirkwall's Templar Order is out for your blood. This is the least of our troubles." The farmhouse is becoming more ominous with each conversation they have about it. Besides that, the people in the town glare at them with open distrust. "It isn't safe here, Hawke."

He is startled when the human vaults down and lands next to him with a thump of heavy boots on the ground. Dust stirs up, and he is suddenly staring into endless eyes that regard him with compassion and patience. "I know you're worried about me, but don't be. I won't let anything happen to myself or to you."

"I can protect myself," he says sharply, taking a step back. They are both wearing armor, and it glitters almost menacingly in the dimming light. Hawke cocks back his arm and launches the core of his apple at the opposite wall. It crashes into a beam and explodes. There is something Hawke is not telling him, and he doesn't like this distrust building between them. After ten years, there is little Fenris doesn't notice about his lover.

Hawke sighs. "I didn't mean to imply otherwise." Fenris swallows and feels the weight of the crimson ribbon on his wrist, a promise. He remembers the night it was gifted to him, the memory like a blazing brand glowing brighter than the lyrium markings ever could. In the dead of night, between soft kisses and whispered words, Hawke tied the ribbon around his wrist.

"I know," he says and puts his hand on Hawke's shoulder to make up for his acidic tone. He sees the wolf in his mind for a split second and the intelligence glittering in those brilliant eyes. Animals lack that glimmer of wisdom, and that is what makes them different than men. Even wolves called by a mage are frenzied, insane creatures.

"Listen to me, Fenris," Hawke shakes him, and he realizes he's been staring off into space. He pays attention to the strong hands on his shoulders, squeezing too tightly. "I've lived with mages all my life. The Templars are going to be hunting them, as well, and those mages will do anything to stay alive. You know that. The best place for us is here, in the middle of nowhere. At least until the madness dies down."

He knows Hawke is right, and he grudgingly admits so out loud. Besides, with no destination, why not linger? There is food, shelter, and a fountain of supplies from the nearby town. They haven't seen the wolf all day, and it almost seems like he dreamed it. Yet those eyes taunt him, and the more he thinks on it the more familiar they seem. Where, exactly, did he see that deep brown before?

"What is wrong with you?" the human asks in a tone that betrays his concern. Hawke smoothes back his hair from his face. "Are you feeling okay? You keep drifting off." The touch wakes him from his reverie, and he bats Hawke's hand away, taking a few steps back.

"You want to stay," he accuses. He is careful with his tone, but it still sounds rude.

"I do," Hawke admits without apology. "Come on, Fenris, tell me the truth. Do you really want to get back on the road so quickly? Out in the rain and the mud again? Here…here we have a semblance of peace. At the very least, we have shelter."

For a moment, he debates bringing up Hawke's words from the other day. Did he not say that if Fenris wanted to leave that they would? But he doesn't want to make the human unhappy. No, not that. So he sighs and casts his gaze to the sun. He has endured worse than a few ghosts and a phantom wolf. When Hawke takes his hand, he looks down at their entwined fingers. He owes Hawke. He loves him. So he will stay.

"Fine," he grumbles, and the smile on Hawke's face makes his heart flutter. "I have a bad feeling, though, Hawke. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Hawke kisses the corner of his mouth. "A part of you wants to stay. Admit it."

"No," he shakes his head, sort of dazed as he stares at his lover. "I trust you." Part of what he says is a lie, though. He does want to stay. Secretly, he hungers for answers like Hawke. Years and years together, and the investigative part of Hawke has rubbed off on him. The heat makes their fingers slick with sweat, and Fenris quickly lets go.

"You're a liar," Hawke catches him almost immediately. "But you don't have to admit it. I know it, and that's enough." A playful shove catches him off guard, and he stumbles forward a bit. Dirt is kicked up from his toes. He glares back at the human, but it's half-hearted. He doesn't like it when they fight. They did that enough back in Kirkwall.

"As you will, Hawke," Fenris says dismissively. A arm winds around his waist, and he gives a soft growl when he's pulled close. It's almost as if Hawke must touch him in some way. He is becoming a bit annoyed, however endearing the trait is. When he looks at Hawke's face to say something scathing, the human's countenance gives him pause.

There is a sadness in those dark eyes behind the wistful glance he's giving at the horizon. In these quiet moments, Fenris wishes he were more experienced in relationships. He wants to wipe that look from Hawke's face, but he doesn't know how. So he must be content to let the protest die in his throat and glance at the floor.

"You know," Hawke sighs, "I really miss Carver. And Bethany. And Mother."

"Bethany will rejoin us when it's safe," Fenris mumbles. It's a fact, and it's all he can offer.

An appreciative chuckle in his ear. "Yeah, and I'm looking forward to that day. When we're all safe again. I just…do you know what I regret the most from that night in Kirkwall?" There's a pause as if he's supposed to answer, but he doesn't. He just listens. "It's pretty silly. Not letting Anders go. Not talking down Orsino. Those were mistakes, but they're not what I regret. Quill was the last bit of Lothering I had left, and I let a damned Templar cut him down."

Fenris isn't sure he's heard right. He glances sharply at Hawke. The dog? The mabari? Hawke sees the expression on his face and laughs, giving him a soft shake.

"There was a lot of death that day, Fenris," he says, "and I hate the fact that I didn't protect my hound better. Ah, I'm an idiot." The elf has fond memories of the mabari. He knows that Hawke had a soft spot for the drooling animal. Burying the corpse in the entrance to the barn was a testament to that. He was a fine warrior and a great companion.

"He was a good dog," Fenris says awkwardly. He does not know how to comfort a man mourning his dog.

"I miss him," Hawke admits sheepishly. The warmth across the elf's shoulders is gone, and Hawke's moving away. "It's not that you aren't enough for me. You are. Sometimes you're more than enough. I just miss my family."

Fenris slinks up beside him and puts a steadying hand on his back. His fingers are so small, dwarfed by the sheer size of the human. Now that he has noticed the difference, his armor doesn't help the gap at all. "It is…understandable."

The tense muscles in Hawke's shoulders melt under the touch, and he turns back with a saddened smile on his face. His teeth are gleaming in the light. With a little hesitation, Fenris cups the right side of his face with his roughly armored hand and presses their lips together. It's one of the few kisses he has initiated, and he puts the sympathy he can't express in words into the simple action. Hawke's fingers circle his wrist and pull the hand gently away, separating the two of them after only a few seconds.

"I love you," the human says intimately, hot breath across his lips. He kisses him again, just a quick peck. "Let's get back to work. Or I might not let you out of my arms." Fenris thinks that Hawke must be a strong man indeed when he moves back.

From the damp heat of the barn, they move out into the blistering sun and out into the fields. Only for a few feet at a time is the fence not a pile of splintered wood crawling with verdant vines. They circle around for a while, and Hawke makes several remarks. Fenris knows that he's noting the places that need repair in his mind. When they are done with the house, they will fix the fence.

It's an hour later that they return to the house, and Hawke sheds his shirt and armor. He throws the leathers in a pile and finds a large hammer to whack violently away at the rotted wood of the house. Fenris cleans up the wood as it falls, gathering large armfuls and taking it toward the river to dump in the pile of ash and soot that remains. For hours they work like this. Fenris stops a few times to suspiciously scan the trees near the river, but he sees not a trace of the wolf. There isn't even a paw print.

Momentarily, he recalls the feeling of earlier when they were in town. It's coming back, the excitement of finishing a project such as this. Physical work and hard labor he can understand. When he's moving, thoughts can disappear completely. He doesn't have to sit and contemplate. It's one of the reasons he finds following Hawke so appealing. No matter what they are doing, they always seem to get caught up in a fight or two along the way.

Hawke has knocked down most of the wall by the time the sun is setting, and they work a little into the night hammering replacement boards in alignment. When all the world is cast in violet shadows and the moon shimmers above, they finally stop. Crawling inside the house proves easier with the entire front porch removed, but Fenris is wary of the exposure. A bigger entrance means guarding it will be more difficult. Hawke still insists they light a fire, though, because Fenris is shivering.

After a meal of fruit purchased earlier, Hawke pulls his sleeping roll close to Fenris's and falls asleep without another word. His snores and the demure crackle of flames seem out of place in comparison to the singing insects and the rustle of leaves outside. The elf catches himself watching for the wolf well into the night before finally succumbing to physical exhaustion. It's only reluctantly that he lies down, and he dreams of brown eyes swimming in an unnatural blue.

When he wakes up, there are others outside. Immediately, his hand whips out toward his blade, and he rushes outside. Luckily, it's only a few men carrying a hefty load of lumber. Hawke's placing a few silvers into their hands and thanking them. One is laughing, and he claps Hawke on the shoulder. Fenris feels his hackles rise at that, but he pushes the feeling down. Being friendly will help with their relations to the town. It is good that Hawke is so personable.

As they leave, Hawke lets his shoulders sag. He walks back toward the house.

"They're wishing us luck with fixing this old place."

"Wishing _you_ luck," Fenris clarifies, and Hawke shrugs indifferently.

"Sure," he says, "but the important part is the story I got from them. They all said the same thing, but they elaborated a little. The man with the dark hair said an apostate was on the run, and he came to stay with the family. A wife, husband, and two little girls. Templars came calling, and the apostate panicked. He sent a pack of conjured wolves on the family so that the Templars would be forced to help the family while he ran."

Fenris crosses his arms and makes a face in disgust. "A mage will do anything to survive."

Hawke knows of his prejudices, and he is usually against them. After all, his sister is a mage. His father was a mage, as well. But he merely nods sagely this time. "So it would seem, but is it enough to tear the Veil itself?"

"A savage death like that?" Fenris shakes his head. "It's more than enough. I wouldn't be surprised to see old ghosts here. In fact, I'm shocked that we haven't seen them already. Being torn apart by wolves is a monstrous way to die."

"But I would say we have, haven't we?" Hawke scratches his beard. "The wolf in the forest…that explains its presence, anyway."

"No," Fenris denies at once. The human is too quick to dismiss it. The elf catches a falseness in his face again, like the night it happened. Hawke is hiding something. He knows it now. "Wolves conjured by mages are mad. That wolf was far too intelligent to be some Fade spirit left behind."

"Maybe, but if that's true, what is it? Why is it here?" Hawke seems to be asking himself rather than Fenris. "Why haven't we seen it since?"

"I do not know," Fenris enunciates carefully, watching Hawke's face. He catches the slips only in between blinks and for mere milliseconds, but it is there. A hand catches his left bicep.

"Enough of this," Hawke says. "We'll think more on it later. Right now, I want breakfast. And I was wondering if you might want to spar a little with me. I'm eager for a fight."

The elf squints into the bright sun. Already, he can feel the searing heat on the back of his neck, and he's reluctant to move about too much. He also doesn't want to let this subject go too quickly. Still, he can sense that Hawke is trying to dodge the topic. His stomach rumbles in that moment, and the decision is taken from him.

"Come on, then," Hawke laughs, guiding him into the cool shade of the house.

Next to the blackened spot on the floor where their fire sat last night, they eat a quick breakfast. Later, Hawke sheds his dark shirt and stands only in simple pants outside, his feet crushing sweet grass. They are not to spar with weapons, apparently. Hawke is a relative tree of ropy muscles wrapped around bone, his waist slim and his hands huge. A trail of black hair circles his navel and disappears beneath the band of his trousers. Silvery scars made from blades much quicker than he decorate his upper torso and back.

Fenris takes much longer to pull off his scratchy shirt and toss it unceremoniously to the ground. What little breeze there is feels good against his hot flesh, and he takes a deep breath and revels in the feeling for just a moment. It has been so long since he tried to fight hand-to-hand. He knows that Hawke is his better when it comes to combat. Still, there is no harm in simple sparing.

They begin by circling one another, and the earth is warm beneath their feet. Fenris attacks first, lashing out with a foot that Hawke dances out of the way of before it can crash into his ribcage. He ducks the fists that come for his face, and thrusts out his hands to catch Fenris in the chest. With a grunt, Fenris stumbles back several feet. He falls to the ground and rolls with the deftness of a rogue back to his feet. Hard and unrelenting, fists fly at him. He uses his forearm to absorb the impact.

For at least an hour they fight until they are both panting and dripping with perspiration. Without pause, each gives and receives quite a few painful blows. Every swinging motion is lazy now, and Hawke laughs as Fenris uses the momentum from the last push to shove them both to the ground. Sweet, dusty earth clings to their backs. They are a tangle of moist limbs, a collaboration of light and dark flesh. Lackadaisically, Hawke traces the lyrium markings burned into Fenris's flesh.

"We should finish up that side of the house. We've got the wood to do it now," Hawke says softly, and Fenris shifts in his arms so that he can look into Hawke's eyes.

"What do you know about the wolf that you aren't telling me?" he demands, but there is no bite to the words. It is a simple inquiry. Hawke appears confused, raising an eyebrow.

"You know everything I know," the human answers. "Of course, I have my own theories about it that I haven't shared. If that's what you're talking about…"

"It's not," Fenris moves away, sitting back on his haunches. The sparring has taken some of the tension from his muscles. He's oddly pliant and loose. Relaxed, almost. "It's not that you have theories. It's that you do know something, and you are keeping it from me. Tell me."

Hawke sighs and sits up. "Fenris, I'm not intentionally trying to hide anything. It's just that I don't want to worry you."

"Worry me, Hawke."

For a moment, he thinks that Hawke isn't going to tell him. The human glances away and runs fingers through thick, black hair as he usually does when he's uncomfortable. "I think the wolf is a mage, not just an animal." That's part of it, but he still isn't divulging everything.

"But that's not all," Fenris presses. "You know who the mage is, don't you?"

"I—" Hawke starts, but he shakes his head. Fenris knows he isn't going to tell the truth even before the words spill forth. "No, I don't."

"Liar," Fenris hisses, and he shoots to his feet to stalk away. Hawke is after him in mere moments, catching his wrist in hard fingers and yanking him back around. Hands catch his shoulders, holding him too tightly, and Hawke is ducking his head so they are eye to eye. Obsidian orbs meet the electric blue of Hawke's eyes, and there's a tiny bit of anger burning there.

"Have I ever led you wrong before?" Hawke demands of him. "Have I ever done anything to hurt you in any way?"

This song and dance is so very familiar that Fenris wants to smile. Oh, how they used to argue in his broken little mansion this way! Over mages, over Templars, over philosophy. But Hawke is wrong this time, and it's not just Fenris being stubborn. He holds his ground. "Why are you keeping the wolf's identity a secret?"

"I'm not," Hawke insists. "I have my suspicions, but I'm not sure."

"You can't lie to me, Hawke," Fenris jerks away, and his markings are giving off a faint glow. "I've seen that look in your eyes a thousand times, and you know exactly who it is. There's no doubt in your mind."

"If I knew who it was, why wouldn't I tell you? I don't hide things from you often, Fenris," the human tells him with a shake of his head. "How can I, with your infallible instincts?"

"I don't know," Fenris admits softly. "But you are."

"Listen to me, we can't have our ritualistic fallout right now," Hawke snaps, spreading his arms. "We're on our own in a strange town with people who aren't afraid to put us to the stake for caring for one another. I'm asking you to trust me. After all this time, can't you just do that small favor for me?"

A wispy wind blows through, tousling Fenris's hair and drying the sweat on his body. He takes a deep breath and tries to will away the glow in his markings. Losing his temper now would only exacerbate the situation. As much as he hates to admit it, Hawke is right. They can't turn on one another now. He does despise the fact that Hawke hit the nail on the head so very precisely when he called it their 'ritualistic fallout'. It is almost habit now, after a period of utopian bliss, to have an argument and stomp away in anger. They have been doing it for years now.

As the human approaches, he just stands there. Hawke puts a hand on the back of his head, ushering him into an embrace. He rests his forehead against the human's chest, but he doesn't touch him in any other way. "I swear that when I know who it is, I will tell you." Fenris must be satisfied with that. Moving slowly, he pushes away.

"We need to get back to work," he says as an excuse, because he doesn't want Hawke's kind words and understanding right now. He wants Hawke to be wrong, and he wants to be angry. How can he be, though? Hawke has never led him wrong before. He does trust him. Without hesitation most of the time.

Hawke seems less than enthusiastic about letting it go just like that, but he doesn't say anything as Fenris slips on his clothing and heads back for the house. In fact, he barely makes a sound at all before going to do the same.

The other humans have delivered a hefty pile of wood, sizeable to the amount of coins Hawke gave the man in the shop. Fenris seizes a few pieces, a hammer, and nails. A little childishly perhaps, he goes to the opposite side of where Hawke is working and begins laying boards against the old house. The porch needs to be rebuilt, and the inside should be refurbished. They have almost completely replaced the bad walls, though. That gives Fenris a little hope.

It's late in the day when Hawke asks him to go into town and buy more nails. With a lazy toss of a roughly-hewn bag of coins, Hawke winks tiredly at him and goes back to work. Fenris straps into his armor and begins the trek towards town.

Only a few minutes later, he's at the marketplace where chickens are running wildly about and children dart out of his way. How he thought this place was lifeless and dead is beyond him now. There is more than a single breath of life here. Young men and women linger and shadows and talk. Travelers bargain for grain and other supplies. The pungent smell of fresh vegetables and fruit wafts through the air along with pies and sweets from other shops.

He's walking past a large building with a bag of nails when he hears a noise. It's familiar to him after living at Hawke's for months and months. Glancing over to a corner next to a dumpling shop is a woman with a crate full of wriggling fur. She is haggard, and there's sweat beading on her forehead. He walks over to her.

"Excuse me," he says, "but I was wondering if you were going to sell one of those pups."

She glances up at him in surprise. "Oh, I'm trying to sell them all." Setting the crate down, she reaches into the whining mass and pulls one out. They are tan with black fur around the muzzle, much like Quill. The one she holds has a large spot over its eye. Though Fenris calls them pups, he realizes now that they are older than that. The one in her hand is at least the size of a large cat.

"My son and I come from Ferelden a few years back," she explains, "and our two mabari just had a huge litter. Now they've gone and had more. I can't feed them all or I'd keep them. Nobody in the Free Marches wants a war hound, though, save for other Fereldens. There ain't many here in this small town." While she is talking, the pup gives a snort and a whine, clawing at her clothes.

"How old is he?" Fenris asks.

"Oh, they're about two months old," she answers immediately, trying to keep hold of the animal. "They're scrappy little things. Especially this little pup. He's broken at least six dishes, and he's eaten all my good working gloves. Please, elf, if your master or you wants a pup, I'll give it to you for fifty silver each."

He bristles a little at the 'master' comment, but for the sake of appearance doesn't say anything. Hawke's sad face as he spoke of Quill comes to mind, and he's tempted to buy the mabari. After all, there are only two of them. A war hound would come in handy even if it is a little ball of enthusiasm at present. He also feels a distinct pity for this woman. By the look of her clothes, she could use the fifty silver.

So it might be pity that makes him take out a sovereign and hand it to the woman. It might be sentimentality or the desire to mend their rocky relationship that forces him to reach out for the pup and gather the mabari to his chest. As the woman grins, it might be his own loneliness that makes him smile in return as the pup licks happily at his face. He doesn't feel a single twinge of regret as he heads back to the house with the mabari wining and scratching vehemently at his armored chest plate.

He approaches Hawke from behind when he gets back to the farmhouse and makes a shushing motion to the dog. Clever as mabari are, the animal blinks bewildered at him as he sets it down on the ground and points at Hawke. A lolling tongue flops out of the tiny mouth, and the dog takes off in the direction of the human, bounding right into the back of his leg.

It grunts and rolls over with infinite flexibility as Hawke looks down with alarm. The dog glances up at him and then begins to bark enthusiastically, making circles at his feet. With a laugh, Hawke tosses the hammer in his hand away and bends down to pick the animal up. In his arms, it's all joy and writhing happiness, biting and licking its way into Hawke's heart. Fenris can't help the smile that comes to his face as Hawke ruffles the animal's fur and encourages the rampant behavior.

Finally, he puts the mabari down. It runs in weaving patterns around his legs, letting loose a few intermittent barks. Hawke grins at Fenris. "What is this?" he asks, gesturing to the dog.

"Your new family," Fenris says softly, bending down and making a clicking noise. The mabari freezes so quickly it nearly tumbles over and shoots toward him. He produces a piece of dried meat and places it between the pup's canines. The dog swallows it in mere seconds before trotting back to Hawke and lying at his feet.

Hawke laughs and scoops the mabari up. "What a fine war hound he'll make," he jokes as the dog yawns in his arms. Maybe Fenris expects it as Hawke loops an arm around his shoulders and presses their lips together in the most chaste of kisses they've shared. "Thank you. I don't know if this will be very convenient, traveling with a puppy, but mabari are smart. I suppose I didn't feel much like a Ferelden without a dog."

Scratching the pup behind the ears, Fenris says, "Now you have one."

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><p><strong>Sorry. I had finals and then my birthday. Thanks for reading. Review please.<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: Paradise for Lesser Men**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: The chantry is destroyed. Hawke and Fenris find solace on an abandoned farm. MaleHawke/Fenris**

**A/N: Thanks for reading. Review please.**

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><p><span>Chapter 4<span>

They are sitting inside the barn while the stars twinkle outside. The light of the fire burns brilliant and casts the interior in a ghostly, orange hue. Hawke is leaning against one of the posts connected to a stall, lazily tossing a stick for the mabari to chase and bring back. Fenris sits on the opposite side of the blaze, using a whetstone to sharpen his blade. The sparks fly off the pressed steal and onto the moist ground with each and every singing strike.

"He needs a name," Hawke announces suddenly, tossing the slobbery stick another few feet. With all the energy of an explosive, the dog takes off after the twig like lightning, securing it between puppy teeth and running back.

"So name him," Fenris answers, sawing at the tip of his broadsword where the edge is becoming just a little too dull. He is sitting cross-legged with the weapon across his lap. The fire is warm against his toes and the front of his legs.

"You bought him. What would you like to name him?" Hawke inquires curiously, tilting his head to the side. The pup belts into his lap with the plaything in his mouth. Plucking it from the dog, he holds it just out of reach, keeping his eyes trained on Fenris.

Perhaps it's that he's never had to name anything before that makes him stop. He lets the whetstone lie on his sword and matches Hawke's gaze. "I'm not sure," he confesses with a shrug.

"Well, consider for a moment," Hawke gestures with one hand, the other throwing the stick far enough that it skids to the entrance of the barn, well away from the safety of the fire. Of course, the mabari follows without hesitation. The black texture of Hawke's leather gloves shines in the dim light. Fenris leans back against the stall door he's propped up against and stares at the ceiling. It's not that he isn't trying, but that he has no idea what to name it.

Instead of providing a name, he asks a question. "Why did you name Quill quill?"

Hawke laughs. "Because he liked to sit on my lap and chew on my quill when he was a puppy. I never got much writing done until I got up and ran a few miles with him. Only then would he sit down and behave." There's a nostalgic twinkle in his eyes. "Carver wanted to name him Rabbit. Maker knows why."

"But you named him, instead?"

"Well, he imprinted on me," Hawke explains. "You see, Father brought him home for Carver, but the buyer can't predict who the mabari will take on as master. He took a liking to me rather than my brother. I got quite a few nasty glares for that." The dog came whipping back through, tiny paws kicking up dust as he flew right into Hawke's lap. "I called him Quill. Carver called him Rabbit. He answered his master." The human shrugged as if to say, 'that's all there is to it'.

"You might try naming him after one of his traits," Hawke suggests, lying the stick down with his hand on top of it. The pup tries to bite through his glove to get to the toy. "You can think on it a bit. There's no rush as far as I can see. Mabari are clever. He'll come when he's called, regardless of what we call him." The dog begins to bark and claw.

Perhaps it's a Ferelden concept or just a dog breeder one, but Fenris can't note much about the animal at all. He's tan, energetic, noisy, and playful. None of those traits seem very good potential names. As Hawke continues to play with the dog, Fenris crosses his arms and watches. Whatever argument they had earlier seems to have melted from his mind. The human is focused on the animal and smiling more than Fenris has seen him do since the destruction of the Chantry. If there was any doubt in his mind as to whether or not purchasing the dog was a good decision, it is gone now.

Eventually, after snuffling around Hawke's fingers for a good few minutes, the dog sits back and waits. "Smart dog," the human admonishes, cuffing the animal gently under the chin with one finger. Tenderness shines in his eyes. It's the same look he used to have when playing with Quill. Pointing at Fenris, Hawke says, "Go play."

The mabari trots over to Fenris with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Instead of trying to play, the animal flops down near his thigh. With a great huff of breath that stirs dust, he lays his head down on his paws. Fenris can't help but smile as he lays his hand on the soft fur, relishing in the strange texture. Boots squeak almost too low for a person to hear as Hawke stands and stretches. He's not wearing armor tonight, and Fenris supposes that there is no reason for him to. Still, their blades are close.

Shuffling wood as Hawke grabs a few of the rotten planks and tosses them on the fire. Sparks fly up, stark against the darkness. The smell of burning wood, smoke, and soot fills the air. The dog shifts under his fingers and rolls over onto its back so that he's touching the tender stomach. Outside the crickets chirp rhythmically while the grass is stirred by the gentle wind that blows through the barn and makes it creak. Fenris is staring at the dog's fur, mostly a light tan but with dark tips. This pup's fur is much less coarse than Quill's. He supposes that it's because of the mabari's age.

He doesn't even hear Hawke approach. A gloved hand curls around the hilt of his sword while another snatches the whetstone away. Hawke moves both things away from him and sets them with the rest of the battle equipment. Each movement is precise, all graceful movements. There's something erotic about the way he does it, not paying attention at all to what he's doing. Instead, he keeps his eyes leveled at Fenris so that the elf is forced to avoid the heated gaze. The dog snuffles under Fenris's fingers, a large yellow eye slowly closing with exhaustion.

Cool leather against his face. The pads of Hawke's fingers are covered, and he doesn't like that. They gently turn him so that he must look at the human. What he sees makes him shiver. Desire, lust, want: every last symptom of their coupling is present. The most important perhaps stays in the forefront. Love shines through as sapphire eyes flicker down towards his mouth. It's the sweetest kiss they've ever shared, by far. There's no urgency, no harsh teeth or tongue. Hawke is slow and precise, and he shockingly keeps his eyes open. Blurred oceans stare at him while they kiss.

It's as if they never fought. Fenris can't distrust this man now, not when he's so very sincere. And he knows Hawke's power. The man could charm a dragon into singing a lullaby. Yet as much as he's seen it, Fenris is not immune. On the contrary, he's maybe the most susceptible to this intoxicating presence. Hawke overwhelms him.

The dog wriggles away from his grasp, and Hawke's hot breath is on his lips. His mouth is scalded, still burning as they pull away. The hand on his cheek trails downward, over the slender slope of his neck to rest at the juncture of his collarbone. Hawke comes closer and embraces him, pulling the slim elf against his chest. Heat and pliant muscle. A kiss at the tip of his ear that makes him shiver.

He almost expects Hawke to speak, but the human doesn't. Instead, he pulls back and kisses him again. Gone is the tenderness and innocence of just a few seconds ago. Now it's all teeth and hot demand as a tongue slides past his sharp teeth and into his mouth. He reaches up and buries his hands into satin hair and slowly drags Hawke to the floor with him. The ground is cool against his back, and it's a rather nice contrast.

There's a bruising force on his hips and teeth in his throat as Hawke bites down. Their clothing his being torn away, shirts thrown overhead and pants kicked off at rapid speed. He feels exhilarated, his heart thudding so hard that he can barely hear Hawke whispering in his ear or the fire or the shuffle of dirt as each moves back to yank off boots.

Fenris has dried mud on his fingers as he cups Hawke's face and crushes their lips together. The metallic tang of blood stings his tongue as he runs it over the human's dull teeth, exploring and tasting. A whisper of speech from a faraway land in Tevinter rushes through his mind. Lightning snaps in his ear and over his skin, but it's just ghosts. Just ghosts and this is real. And he wants it so badly that he digs his fingernails into Hawke's back. Neither of them mind, though, because Fenris is accustomed to having blood under his nails. Hawke knows what it is to be injured during sex.

Pulsating hardness inside of him, driving pleasure to the forefront of his brain. He's arching his back and groaning in a flat-tipped ear. Hawke is hoisting him up, his thighs on either side of Hawke's hips, and they're sitting. It's atypical, but he doesn't mind because Hawke is thrusting inside of him and making him see stars. He wraps his arms around Hawke's neck and breaths harshly into his ear. Sweat-slicked hair brushes against his shoulder. He bites deeply into his lip and lets the blood dribble down over his chin.

The way they're sitting allows him full view of the barn entrance. He can see outside, the green grass blowing in the wind and the dark sky twinkling with a thousand diamonds. Even as Hawke bends him back and kisses at his throat and chest, he still catches glimpses of a world less heated than this one. What seems like too short a time later, they are winding down. The pleasure becomes too great, and the chord snaps. Fenris cries out, and just as he does, he sees the wolf.

The animal is sitting calmly outside the entryway with serious eyes that are glowing with something preternatural. Hawke's back is to it, and he can't see. In that moment, though, Fenris is not afraid. Suddenly he knows who the animal is, and it makes him positively furious that the person would watch such an intimate exchange between the two of them. Of course, who else has such mud brown eyes mixed with an indescribable blue? The wolf matches his gaze as Hawke pants into his shoulder and then kisses him with all the love and adoration he can muster. Fenris kisses back, angry and strangely possessive.

"What is it?" Hawke breathes heavily as he pulls away. "What are you looking at?" As he turns to glance at the entryway, the wolf suddenly leaps into the trees and is gone. Fenris's eyes snap back to Hawke and catch his chin before he can turn away. The elf envelopes him in another kiss, more focused than before. There's no reason for Hawke to know yet.

"Nothing," Fenris tells him in a heated whisper. "It's absolutely nothing important." He hopes the mage hears and takes it as an insult.

Hawke smiles a sad smile, muscled biceps encircling even closer around his body. "I love you," he whispers into etched markings. "Maker, Fenris, how I love you."

The elf's heart skips a beat at the pure sincerity ringing in the tone. Hawke's not expecting anything back. Does he know already? Are words a necessity? The human kisses at his throat and rubs soothing circles with his thumb into Fenris's lower back. They separate within in the next few minutes, but Hawke keeps him close. Fenris returns the kisses and loving touches until Hawke falls into his usual light sleep. Only then does the elf extract himself from the enclosing embrace and tangle of limbs to yank on some clothes. He dares to put a blanket over Hawke, risking waking him up.

The jangle of his armor nearly puts him into a state of panic as he straps on his gauntlets and carapace with impatience. Sooner or later he's dressed and slings his sword over his shoulder, the weight of it reassuring in the leather case on his back. He tiptoes around Hawke and the dog that—scared away earlier by their coupling—has curled up beside him on the blanket.

Outside in the loneliness of the night, he feels that old anger rising again. Embarrassment follows. He hates that the mage was there to witness that part of his life, and he's furious that someone else saw Hawke that way. That face was meant only for him, those words for his pointed, elven ears only. The human's naked flesh was for his eyes and his body, not a voyeur from the past that should have been murdered weeks ago.

Finally he's standing near the river, and he's brimming with rage. It's so complete that he's glowing with it, the hum of lyrium in his markings audible to a select few. Running water splashes over rocks. He doesn't yell but speaks with cold steel in his voice, "Did you enjoy the show? I know you're there. Come out and show yourself, coward."

Nothing happens, and the anger grows. He cuts the air with a sharp gesture, fingers twitching for his blade. "Stop hiding. Hawke told you to run, but here you are. You must need something. All your kind does is take. Hasn't Hawke done enough for you?" Something moves in the shadows. It's all it takes for Fenris to seize his chance.

The mage is slammed up against a tree, and he grunts. Fenris is clenching his teeth, his fist bunched in the lapel of Ander's jacket. They're so close they could be lovers save for the violent tremble in the elf's muscles and the dangerous glow in his skin. Anders's hands are spread, and there's fire licking up the length of his arms. "What are you doing here?" Fenris demands heatedly, hauling Anders even closer. The fire singes the cloth of his armor, but he doesn't care.

"I'm not here to see you," the mage spits in return. "I'm here to see Hawke."

Fenris tightens his hold. "So you what? Use blood magic to transform into an animal and linger in the shadows like a ghost?"

"It's not blood magic, you idiot," Anders explains exasperatedly. "It's an old magic I learned from my commander. But why am I telling _you _this? You're not level-headed enough to listen. Now let me go."

"Don't tell me whether or not I'm level-headed. How long have you been lurking around in the dark?"

Anders narrows his eyes, and the heat intensifies. "I just found you. Hawke already knows it's me. If you're so close to him, you'd be able to tell. I told him about this magic years ago."

Fenris wants to hurt him, to tell him that he already caught the so obvious lie. It's childish, though, to argue like that. Instead, he increases the pressure on Anders's throat. "You don't know a thing about our relationship, and you wouldn't have come if you knew Hawke at all. He doesn't need you here. We've just got back a semblance of peace, and now you've come to tear that apart again?"

"I've said it before. Hawke doesn't need you to protect him. Now let me go before I burn you alive," Anders growls, pushing at him. The fire increases in size.

The elf hisses, "You're not going anywhere near Hawke. He's already hunted like the rest of you filthy mages for keeping you alive when he should have murdered you the second he learned you were an abomination." Despite his desperate urge to keep a hold on the mage, to make sure that he can't go anywhere near Hawke, Fenris lets go with a shove that slams Anders even further against the unforgiving bark. "Now take your lies and pleas and desperation somewhere else to a new ally. Hawke is done being yours."

"When did you become his spokesperson?" Anders grimaces as he touches the back of his head. "Hawke's a grown man, smart enough to make his own decisions. That's why he helped the mages. Because it was _right. _And I need his help again."

He can't help it. Maybe it's proving Anders's claims right, that he is a wild animal. He draws his sword and swings it around so quickly that he scarcely sees it at all. Anders is just as blindingly fast, though, and sparks fly from his staff as the two connect. "I'll see you dead first," he spits.

"You're testing my patience, elf. I know Hawke cares for you, and that's why I'll give you another chance," Anders explains slowly. There's already a leak in mana from him. His voice is deeper, and his eyes are tinged with blue. "Put your sword away."

Fenris takes a deep breath. The mage is talented. He won't win if he lets his emotions go haywire. "I won't let you endanger Hawke again," he says calmly. "Not again. Orsino almost killed him. He's hunted as we speak. All because of you."

Guilt flashes in Anders's eyes, but it hardens again. "Hawke chose his side, and he has the right to choose it again."

"He chose wrong," Fenris argues. "This time the choice affects us both. We're a team."

"So you eliminate his decision all together? Some team," Ander snorts, but his hands tighten on the handle of his staff. "I need to speak to him. I don't care if you're having sex with him or not. Hawke is the only one that can help the mages now. I don't need you, and Hawke doesn't need you. You're just a psychotic ex-slave with no one else to turn to, and he's taking pity on you. That's it."

Fenris lunges at Anders, swinging his blade around in a wide arch. It never connects with the mage, though, because a shadow shoves him out of the way. Steel meets steel with a massive clang, and Hawke is standing there in the dark with his blades crossed under the weight of the Fenris's sword. The elf yanks away from the fight with a snarl, and Hawke has the expression of an angry dragon as he whirls toward Anders.

He sheathes one dagger and stalks over to the fallen mage, hauling him up by the collar of his jacket. Icy blue eyes regard Anders, running over his face. The other knife rests at the tender flesh of his throat. "Anders..."

Fenris's muscles are trembling with pent up rage. Only reluctantly does he sheathe his blade because it looks like there will be no fight. Hawke can handle a single mage. For a man who grew up with them, he's remarkably efficient at ending their lives.

Despite his situation, the mage has the nerve to look relieved. "Hawke," he swallows. "I thought you were sleeping."

Hawke snorts and sends a savage glance back at Fenris. "He's never been able to leave without waking me up. I can't believe he tried." Fenris feels guilt settle hard and cold in his stomach. "I also can't believe he thought he could meet with you secretly and keep his temper in check. If there's anything you two can't do, it's be civil around each other." With a grunt, Hawke shoves Anders to the ground and backs up until he's right at Fenris's shoulder. United. A team. The dagger is twirling between his fingers.

"I'm sorry about all this," Anders says as he gets to his feet. Hawke points the tip of the blade at him, narrowing his eyes.

"You know that Fenris means more to me than that," the human snarls. "A lot more. I don't appreciate you insulting our relationship, especially since you and I are not on the best of terms right now. If you're here to ask for help, you're off to an awfully rocky start."

The mage sighs and dusts off his robes. "You're right. I'm sorry. That was less than gracious of me."

Hawke turns on Fenris. "I know that you want to protect me. I understand that, and I'm accepting of that. With all the trouble I get into, Maker knows I need help. But don't try to take my decisions away from me." There's less heat in his eyes, and his voice is kind. Fenris glares but doesn't reply. He doesn't like that he's been caught.

Anders interrupts. "You don't know how much I didn't want to ask for your help. I wanted to stay out of your way. You've done a lot for us, Hawke. More than enough. But I need you again."

Fenris watches Hawke sigh and turn away. Gloved hands clench on the hilt of the blade, and he tenses as if to throw it. The sleepy wind blows through and tousles his hair. Fenris feels a drop of rain plop against his gauntlet and glances at it in astonishment. It hasn't rained in days. Anders shifts nervously on his feet while the crickets sing around them. Suddenly Hawke glances at the mage.

"Tell me why," he says. "Tell me why and what. Then I'll decide. This time no lies. I don't care how twisted or deviant or outright _wrong _your plan is. You tell me everything because I _won't_ walk into this blind." The conviction in his voice seems to rock the trees. It's been a while since Fenris has seen this commanding side of him. Brilliant blue eyes flicker towards the elf. "Not again. Do you understand?"

"I only did that to protect you," the mage argues futilely. When Fenris glares at him, he shakes his head. "But I understand. I'll tell you everything and answer all your questions. But we must hurry."

Back at the barn, Fenris is standing next to the entrance with his arms crossed. The flat part of his left foot is resting against the wooden siding. He watches while Hawke and Anders speak. Hawke is totally relaxed in the mage's presence, but Anders is finicky. He twitches and jerks when he moves. Obviously, he doesn't trust Hawke's good intentions. But the rogue promised not to hurt Anders. That means he won't.

"Ghosts," Hawke chuckles. "We've heard awful stories about this old place. It was starting to get to our heads."

Anders glances around. "I can…sense something here. I wouldn't dismiss the rumors so quickly."

Hawke sobers up. "Tell us about this problem of yours. We can discuss ghost stories later."

The mabari kicks idly in his sleep next to Hawke who is leaning against a wooden beam tossing breadcrumbs into the fire. Fenris wonders as he stares at their sleeping pallet if Hawke is aware that Anders was watching them. If anyone can sense even the smallest flex of mana, it is Hawke. Anders paces as he explains. Fenris tries to pay attention, but the timbre of the mage's voice grates on his nerves. He hasn't forgiven him for the intrusion earlier.

"—heading toward Orlais when they caught up to us. They took Marni and Lavisse. Kindel and I managed to get away, but he was wounded. I had to leave him behind in a clinic about two days back." Anders stops and looks pleadingly at Hawke. "Whatever the templars kidnapped them for isn't good, Hawke. There are no circles anymore. They've all rebelled. So why capture mages?"

"I would think," Hawke sits up, "that they would use blood magic to defeat the Templars."

"No, not those two," Anders shakes his head. "It was why I was traveling with them. They were some of the only mages not to turn to demons when all this started. We were trying to do some good, to recruit others and heal some of the damage. Maybe start peace talks with the Templars, or to those that would listen. Now they've been captured, and it's all my fault."

"So what do you want me to do about it?" demands Hawke. He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. "I don't owe you anything, Anders. In fact, you owe me your life and this entire rebellion. If not for me, Meredith would have locked you away a long time ago and executed you. Now that I've lost just about everything important to me, my sister's halfway around the world, and I'm on the run, you want me to give up whatever peace I've found here to help you rescue a bunch of rebel mages that you have a soft spot for?"

Put that way, Anders can't come up with a counterargument. He sits down on the ground and runs a hand through his hair. It's greasy, like he hasn't had a decent bath in days. Heavy bags ring his eyes, and there's more than a few weeks of stubble growing on his chin. His clothing is filthy, speckled with blood and mud. Even his staff seems weak and weary, chipped in several places. Despite all this, Fenris can't feel pity for him. He knew his choice and what it entailed. Perhaps he expected more glory.

"Look, Hawke," Anders sigh, "I know I have no right to ask you anything, but you've always done the right thing. Or at least what you thought was right. We were friends once. The Seekers will torture those girls and then make them Tranquil. Marni's only fifteen. Lavisse is only a few years older than that, and they're both Fereldens with families. Can't you do it for them?"

"I don't even know where to start," Hawke snaps. "Innocent people die all the time. What in the name of the Maker do you expect me to do to help them? You don't even know where they are." Anders stands up, seizing his moment of hope.

"No, I do," he says. "They're in an abandoned Circle about four days north. I've already inspected it. The girls are alive, but it's swarmed by Templar guards. I can't defeat them all by myself or I would have tried."

"Four days?" exclaims Hawke incredulously. "They could be dead already or Tranquil. You must be crazier than I thought, Anders. There's no way we could get there in—"

Anders kicks a flaming stick in a fit of anger, and Fenris starts toward them with his hand on his sword. The mabari starts into life, growling menacingly. The mage's eyes flicker towards Fenris briefly before settling back on Hawke, and his voice is deeper than it should be. "What if it were Bethany?"

"You know the answer to that," Hawke snarls, getting to his feet. "I'd swim the nearest ocean for her, and I'd get her back at all costs. Tranquil or no. Don't try to play on my emotions. You won't guilt me into another suicide mission."

"You're right, I'm sorry," Anders holds up his hands, and his voice is back to normal. "It was my mistake. They shouldn't have to pay for that. Please. I got there too late to save Karl. Don't let me fail again." His eyes are shining, and he's begging now.

"Virus," Fenris hisses from the shadows. "You infect everything you come into contact with, don't you? Do you want to know the best way to keep the people around you safe? _Stay away from them._"

"Fenris," Hawke admonishes him softly.

Fenris doesn't listen. "Haven't you caused enough damage? You ruin everything you touch, mage. You and that demon in your head. We don't need more trouble. Everyone we knew is running from the Templars _because of you_! And you want us to run right towards them?"

"Fenris!" Hawke says more sharply. "Enough."

Feeling rather betrayed, the elf backs up a step. "You're actually considering this!" he accuses hatefully. It's the same tone of voice he used to snap at Varania a lifetime ago. "Why? What do you owe him that makes you want to help him every time he asks?" Their arguments over the past few days come to a head, and Fenris wants to explode in that moment. Anders is driving them apart, and loathes the mage even more than he did before.

"It's Hawke's decision," Anders snaps, and Hawke thrusts out a hand to silence him.

"I didn't say I was considering anything, but you're out of line," Hawke tells him. Fenris curses in his Tevinter language and throws up his arms.

"Fine," he glares at Anders. "Convince him to join your cause again. Maybe, though, before you do, you could just grab a dagger and plunge it into his heart yourself. Because your lies and futile dreams of a world where demonic children run free without restraint will _kill _him anyway!" Fenris storms out of the barn and into the fields to cool off.

It's raining now, and he stomps straight towards the river and slams his fist into the trunk of a tree. His strength combined with the glowing power of his lyrium tattoos bloodies his knuckles as they are buried deep within the wood. The tree groans in complaint, and a few green leaves fall from the branches to land on his head. Bracing his foot against the torso, he yanks his hand out.

Standing in the cold water, he closes his eyes and wills the power away. Lately his emotions have become more unstable. He blames it on the mage's presence. Anders had always vied for Hawke's attention, as desperate as a mabari for even the slightest word of encouragement or a pat on the head. It isn't jealousy that makes Fenris hate the mage. He trusts Hawke enough in that regard. In fact, Hawke has never even glanced at another man or woman that way. No, it's the fact that Anders is so absolutely set on putting Hawke in mortal danger at every chance he gets.

There's blood bubbling out of his scraped knuckles, and Fenris glances at the burning abrasion with distaste. It's beginning to swell, and he wonders idly if he's broken something. Sighing once, he heads toward the river and slips his hand into the dark depths. The water washes away the blood in a stream of coalescing color he can barely see by the light of the moon. Dangling his fingers a few time before pulling them out, he inspects the wound. The tiny scrapes are inflamed, but he can't feel any misplaced bone.

Soon he goes to one of the trees and slides to the ground against it with his arm slung over his blade. He can see the glow of the fire from the barn here. It's distant but present. Even if he closes his eyes, he can't hear them speak. The rush of water is too loud. The rustle of leaves is deafening. Even the subtle movement of his bones and muscle and thumping heart is louder than what they are saying. He doesn't care anymore, anyway. Hawke will make his decision, and Fenris has a gut feeling that he knows what it is already. Would he let two mages molder away when he could save them? Definitely not. Would he overcome his distrust of Anders to save two innocent girls? In a heartbeat.

For all Hawke's wonderful qualities, he does have at least two fatal flaws that Fenris has been able to identify.

He can't let well enough alone, and he constantly overestimates his abilities.

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><p><strong>Faster update and more plot! Find any typos? Feel free to point them out. Thanks for reading. Review please.<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: Paradise for Lesser Men**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: The chantry is destroyed. Hawke and Fenris find solace on an abandoned farm. MaleHawke/Fenris**

**A/N: Thanks for reading. Review please.**

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><p><span>Chapter 5<span>

When Hawke comes to find him, it is nearly morning. The mage and rogue have talked for hours, and Fenris is dozing lightly with the sharp side of his sword digging uncomfortably into his upper arm. His fingers and toes are numb with the cold, and Hawke comes with a blanket to wrap around his shoulders. Nimble fingers pluck his sword from his grasp and lay it gently in the springy grass. A warm hand smoothes back the hair from his face, and then a shoulder is resting against his.

Fenris reluctantly opens his eyes because he can feel Hawke take in a soft breath to speak. The trees rustle above them. An owl hoots distantly, and the trickle of water from the stream is a natural lullaby. While he slept, the moon moved. He can't see it for the thick canopy. Leather and the scent of spiced bread wafts from Hawke's direction. There's more, though. He's tainted with the stink of magic. The stench is in his skin, clinging to his hair. Fenris holds his breath. He doesn't want a single reminder of Anders near him.

"You know what my answer was," Hawke whispers into the night air, and it feels like a weight smacking into Fenris's chest. The human pauses, seeming to choose his words very carefully. "I won't apologize. You know me too well for that. Hating Anders…being angry for what he did…I can't let those two girls die because I won't let go of a grudge."

"I do know you, Hawke," Fenris murmurs. "That means I know all this, too." He allows his head to sag forward and lets out the breath he's been holding. He wiggles his fingers because he can barely feel them. Hawke is a source of warmth against his shoulder. Inside, he feels pure resignation. Maybe it's fatigue, but there's no fight left in him.

Hawke sighs. "I guess that only leaves one question, doesn't it?" He turns to look at Fenris, his eyes cast in shadows. The elf keeps his face emotionless, staring forward into the dark trees.

"I suppose it does," he answers with only a hint of melancholy.

"Will you come with me?"

The answer comes easily. Throughout all of Hawke's bad decisions, Fenris has stuck by him. He's argued and kicked and accused, but he's been there in the end. He won't stop supporting him now. "Yes," he breathes into the cool night air and lets his head fall back.

"For what it's worth, thank you," Hawke tells him, and fingers are lacing with his. He wants to pull away but doesn't have the will or the energy if it turns into another big fight. The warmth is nice, anyway, soft leather pressed into the calloused flesh of his hand. The human glances at the barn, the winking fire in the distance. "I can't believe he came here."

Fenris snorts. "Really? You can't? When has he ever done anything but take? He puts you in danger constantly for his own selfish reasons. You should have killed him when he wanted to die."

"No," Hawke squeezes his hand. "That would have made him a martyr. He didn't deserve the glory. Now everyone knows he's a murderer, and he can pay the price for it. He _is _paying the price for it by the look of him. Killing him would have let him off too easily."

"Maybe so," the elf admits with a half shrug. "Maybe he didn't deserve the glory, but he did deserve death."

Hawke laughs, but it's a ragged and slightly unhappy sound. "Finally, we agree." The sound trails off, and there's a short silence wracked with tension. The human obviously wants to continue. "Fenris…I'm glad you're coming. I wasn't sure that you would."

Fenris lets out an annoyed growl. "I wouldn't abandon you, Hawke."

"I just feel like we've been arguing so much lately," he says before snorting. "Well, more than usual anyway."

They have been arguing a lot, but Fenris doesn't think it's more than usual. Actually, he thinks it's rather normal. Haven't they always gone through stages like this? Perhaps Hawke just thinks that it's different because the circumstances are off. They haven't even come to blows yet—well, on purpose at least. Hawke trying to stop him from slicing Anders into very small, possessed pieces doesn't count.

"Stop worrying, and focus on staying alive," Fenris says, turning his head just a bit to catch Hawke out of the corner of his eye. "These Templars will put up a fight."

Hawke groans as he shifts his position. "We'll scope it out first. If it looks too well-guarded, we'll turn around and leave. Anders be damned."

"You do realize those girls could already be tranquil by now. Could even be dead."

"I do know that," Hawke admits. "We have to try. What if it were Bethany, Fenris? Or you? Any of my friends, and I'd go without hesitation. I'm not doing this for Anders. I'm doing it for those girls. Innocent people shouldn't have to suffer because of what Anders did."

Fenris starts as he hears a sound of something rapidly approaching in the woods. Hawke hears it, too, and lets his hand go to sit up and glance around. They can't see anything in the blackness, but it doesn't take long for the elf to figure out what it is. A ball of energetic fur crashes into his foot with a whimper. Tiny claws scratch rapidly at his leg, and he opens his arms to a wiggling mabari. Seeing the dog lightens his heart, and he smiles despite himself as the animal licks enthusiastically at his neck and collarbone.

Hawke reaches over and scratches the dog behind his ear. It snaps playfully at him and slinks out of Fenris's arms to run off into the black of night again. Crunching leaves fly in his wake. "What's he doing?" Hawke wonders aloud, leaning back against the tree and crossing his arms. His armor clinks as he moves, and Fenris wonders if it's because they haven't oiled or polished their armor in weeks. Strange how he is used to such luxuries now when he has lived so long without them.

"Fenris," Hawke calls to him, and he glances toward the human. In the dark, there's something luminescent about skin. It's almost magical the way the light of the moon reflects off the surface as though it's scar tissue. Hawke's eyes are brilliant flames in his skull, blue flecked with silver and gold. Stubble has turned into the beginnings of a beard, fine black hair growing around his mouth and under his jaw. It's strange to see. Hawke never lets his hair grow so much. Even his bangs are growing into his eyes. "Earlier, you were staring at something that was outside the door near the barn. It was Anders, wasn't it?"

Fenris swallows, using one gloved hand to rub some warmth into his shoulder. The blanket feels suffocating around him, entangling, but it's warm. "Yes, though I'm not sure he was there for long. Just…toward the end."

Something snaps in Hawke's gaze, and his eyes become steel. "That son of a bitch. For how long has he been watching us, I wonder? I'll kill him."

"You knew who it was," Fenris accuses. "He said he told you about that magic years ago."

"I did think it was him," Hawke bites out. "But I _thought. _I didn't know for sure. We had stories about ghosts and apostates being thrown at us from locals. It could have been anyone. If the Hero of Ferelden knows how to change shape, and she commands an entire bloody army, how many other mages know how? I wanted to be sure before I told you." Hawke slides his knee up and presses his forehead to the cold steel of his gauntlet. "That son of a bitch. I should have let you cut him."

A part of Fenris is endeared that Hawke cares so much. He already forgot about Anders watching them. With Isabela coming in and out of the house, Bodahn, Orana, Sandal, and Leandra before she died haunting the mansion, privacy was something to behold. Now, what sort of privacy can they expect when they make love in fields beneath the stars, in the ghostly ruins of dead farms?

"I suppose we'll be rid of him soon," Hawke says, letting his arm fall. "I told him that if I do this, he has to leave us alone. I'm done being Champion. I'm getting too old for this shit."

Fenris tries to hold back a snort, but he can't. It comes out more as a laugh than he intends. "You have a while to go before you're too old for anything," the elf tells him. "Whether or not you accept your role as Champion, you are a symbol nevertheless."

A crooked smile is shot his way. "Guess I can't retire from that, can I?"

"No," the elf smiles back, setting his fingers on Hawke's shoulder, "I don't think you can."

The mabari whips around a tree in that moment, smacking into Hawke's stomach this time and making him groan. He reaches down and picks the pup up by the scruff of his neck. Then he laughs, passing the mutt to Fenris.

"He brought you a present," Hawke says, leaning closer and petting the dog as it sits in Fenris's lap. Secured tightly between the sharp teeth is the twig that Hawke was playing with earlier. The elf can feel the bite marks as he extracts it from the dog's jaws.

"Twig," he says suddenly, and it sounds perfect.

"What?"

"Let's name him Twig."

There's a pregnant pause with the dog snuffling against Fenris's stomach before Hawke chuckles low in his ear and puts an arm around his shoulders, squeezing lightly. "Sure," the human acquiesces. "I think it's a good name. See? I knew you could do it. Twig," Hawke calls to the dog, and the mabari glances up at him with rapt attention. "I think he agrees, too."

Twig barks and turns around in a circle, wagging his small tail before taking off again into the woods. Hawke's arm across his back is burning hot like a brand. The human isn't usually so warm. He gives Fenris a swift shake. "Let's go back to the barn. We're going to leave in the morning."

"By morning?" Fenris repeats incredulously. "That soon?"

"It'll take us days to get there, so yes. They're running out of time," Hawke murmurs.

With a sigh, Fenris extracts himself from Hawke's arm and slings the blanket over his shoulder. Hawke picks up his blade. He doesn't relish the idea of staying under the same roof as the filthy mage, but he supposes that there's no other way. Hawke is far too polite to sleep away from Anders, no matter how angry. He won't treat a guest with anything less than perfect etiquette.

The barn is stifling after hours outside in the crisp, cool air of the open night. Fenris immediately begins to sweat and swipes the hair out of his face. Just as he raises his hand, Hawke catches it and brings it closer to his face. Fenris shoots a glance at Anders who is staring into the fire. Surely the human will be less open with his shows of affection because of another's presence. But instead of the cool kiss he expects to feel, his hand is being scrutinized.

"What are all these splinters from?" Hawke demands. "Your hand looks like you've shoved it through the trunk of a tree."

Fenris is startled by how accurate that is and lets it show on his face.

"Maker," Hawke says, "you _did_, didn't you?"

Anders glances up from his perch near the fire.

"Idiot," chides his lover as he's pulled closer, being led toward their bags. He's forced to kneel as Hawke does and unbuckles his gauntlet. The shining metal is set away as Hawke digs through his bag for medical supplies. "We don't have time for you to get an infection right now. Especially not in your hand."

"I wasn't thinking clearly," Fenris admits, glaring at the floor. He feels like he's a child being scolded in front of his friends. Not that Anders is his friend. It's just all the more embarrassing for his presence.

"Just hold still," Hawke dismisses, and there's a pulling sensation as the human carefully removes the splinters. Once they're gone, Hawke dumps a cloying liquid on his knuckles that burns. He hisses and clenches his fist. "Let me wrap it." The bandages are cool, and Fenris sees that it does appear worse by the light of the fire. It's an angry red and swollen. Perhaps he has broken a bone in there somewhere. Hawke pats it when he's done.

"Now go to sleep," the rogue orders, standing up. "The both of you. No more sneaking off tonight. I'm tired." Without doing much else, Hawke flops into a pile of soft, moldering hay with his arms crossed and his eyes closed. Just as he does this, Twig appears from the darkness with a frantically wagging tail. Climbing up the hay, he promptly sits in the middle of Hawke's stomach and falls quickly to sleep. Fenris sighs at the two of them. Fereldens and their dogs.

After a moment, Fenris goes outside, feeling the cool earth beneath his feet. The fire crackles loudly behind him, more a pile of embers now because no one has been feeding it. Off in the distance, he can see the black and white outline of the old farmhouse. Their recently purchased pile of wood is near the porch, though it's not visible to him. A part of him is disappointed. Will they be coming back? This place as wormed its way into his heart. He wants to see this finished. Leaving it doesn't seem right somehow.

It's up to Hawke whether or not they return. There aren't any Templars that Fenris has run into. Bethany could live here with them when it's done being rebuilt. A flourishing town is just down the road. It's a two story house with spare bedrooms. Some nights he finds himself missing Bethany. Fenris is good for arguing and fighting. He can hold his own. He can deflect angry punches and throw them back. When the emotional torment is gone, he's good at tasting the blood in their kisses. Bethany is good with words. She can talk Hawke down from the most righteous of decisions. Besides that, she makes Hawke feel as though he still has some family left in the world.

The turmoil in Hawke's eyes when Bethany told him it was best they split up was haunting. But he grudgingly agreed and held onto her tiny, gloved mage fingers as Isabela's boat pulled away from the dock. The separation of their grip was like tearing something precious. Both covered in blood and gore and sweat, they were a sight to behold. Fenris never saw Bethany look so pathetic as that day when she burst into tears. It was the first time he ever saw her cry.

Fenris can't imagine being split up from Hawke. Even through their vicious arguments and general disagreements, they've always stayed together. Fighting side by side. They are confidantes first, friends and allies. The relationship just follows naturally, the sex and emotion a given when two people have that kind of special connection. He is going to protect Hawke from the Templars and the mage at all costs.

Fatigue makes him heavy as he heads back inside. Anders is still awake, fiddling with something in his hands. Fenris stops across from the fire and looks at him. How pathetic he seems, all alone. For a moment, the elf feels something like pity. Yes, he must have expected more glory. Or at least the merciful death that Hawke denied him. "If he gets hurt, I will kill you," Fenris promises in a hushed tone. He doesn't take off his armor as he lies down and curls into Hawke's side. The rogue puts an arm around his shoulders and pulls him even closer, the dog giving a soft huff in response to the movement.

It's much later in the dead of night when both Hawke and Fenris are sleeping that Anders is wide awake and responds brokenly with, "I know."

In the early hours of the morning, Fenris is jostled awake by Hawke who is shooing Twig away and getting to his feet. Bits of straw have pressed into the elf's face, leaving red imprints in his skin. It's stuck to his clothes, and the sharp protrusions on his armor are digging painfully into his side. With a groan, he rolls over and wipes his face, rubbing at his eyes. A fog has rolled in, eerily obscuring everything outside the barn door in a thick mist. He feels wet from the dew and shakes his head, feeling droplets smack against his skin.

Hawke is rummaging in their bags, dumping the canteen water in his hand and washing his face. Fenris knows he needs a bath, but they're unlikely to take time for that. He's itchy in his armor, the hay only making it worse. With a groan, he digs into his own bag for water. It's warm and metallic tasting, a bit like blood. Twig is yapping loudly, jumping back and forth. Hawke tosses a bit of dried beef towards him and sinks against one of the barn pillars. Twig takes off after the meat, and Fenris blinks away the sand in his eyes.

"Are we ready to go?" Anders's voice breaks through Fenris's bleary consciousness. It's an unwelcome intrusion, and he almost feels like growling irritably at the mage. Hawke glances up at Anders with his hand covering his eyes from the bright sky outside. Anders is illuminated by the grey sky behind him, rolling clouds telling of a dreary, rainy day.

"A few minutes, Anders," Hawke tells him. "We just woke up."

The mage taps his foot impatiently. "Lavisse and Marni won't wait to be made tranquil while you wake up."

Fenris snarls, "Listen, _mage_—"

Hawke puts a hand on his thigh to silence him. "Your friends can wait for as long as it takes. I'm the one in charge of this. _You _came to _me_, remember?" The hand slides away, and Fenris stands up to stretch, biting his cheek. His words would have been much more scathing.

"Scatter the ashes of the fire, Anders," Hawke orders, getting to his feet as well. He rolls his shoulders, and the smooth muscles ripple beneath his tanning flesh. As Anders goes to do what he's been told, Hawke catches Fenris watching him. The human winks at him and runs a hand over his growing beard. "I should shave soon."

"Why?" Anders asks him. "The scruffy look suits you."

Hawke laughs. "I haven't had a beard since I was trying to buy my way into Bartrand's expedition. Besides, I pull off the smooth, charming thing better without it. It makes me look cleaner. Women like that."

"I wouldn't think that much mattered," remarks Anders, glancing at Fenris.

The rogue shrugs in his lazy way. "It helps us get discounts and information."

There is no more talk that morning at Fenris shuffles around and wakes up. He drinks quite a bit of the water in his canteen and chews on a few pieces of sweet meat. Anders paces impatiently at the entrance to the barn as the fog slowly dissipates. Hawke mostly packs things away. Soon they head out toward the house where Hawke pulls a tarp over the pile of wood. Fenris lays his hand against the new siding by way of goodbye, and they all set off with Anders in the lead.

It's a slow trek through the heavy foliage and tangled roots growing wild in the woods, but they manage to get a few miles ahead with good time. No one speaks really. Hawke makes a few clever jokes, but Fenris mostly ignores them. The sun is hot as the day drags on, and the humidity makes the temperature seem even worse. Soon they break through the trees and begin heading a little east through muddy fields with a few sparse workers and a lot of abandoned farming equipment. Twig chases a rabbit through the field, ducking under Anders's feet a few times. Thankfully the mage only comments once on the dog.

"He's awful small to bring along, isn't he?" the mage says after a few hours of silent walking when he almost trips over the mabari.

"Twig?" Hawke inquires as if the mage could be talking about anyone else. "You must be kidding. He's a warhound, fierce and protective." With one hand, the rogue sweeps the pup up into his arms. "Besides, we can't very well leave him behind."

"What if he gives away our position?" Anders demands.

"I'll watch him," Hawke shrugs as the dog licks his chin. "Don't underestimate a Ferelden's dog. I might take offense. You never complained about Quill."

"Quill was four times his size," Anders argues, "and trained to protect his master. That is about the size of a large cat."

"Didn't Pounce once scratch a darkspawn on the nose?" Hawke raises an eyebrow. "Pot calling the kettle…"

"Whatever," the mage huffs, stalking ahead. "Just make sure he doesn't get us killed."

Hawke shoots Fenris a grin and sets Twig down. "Yes, Messere."

That night they stay under the shelter of a few trees with a heavily leafed canopy to keep out the rain. Hawke cooks supper. To call it food would be generous, Fenris feels, because it's nothing more than boiled rice and wheat. Still he eats it quietly and tucks himself into a corner to sleep, Twig choosing to cuddle up with Hawke instead of the elf. Whether or not Anders sleeps at all is a complete mystery, but he is still awake by the time Fenris closes his eyes and is up before anyone else in the morning.

The second day is no less exciting. It even begins to rain early in the morning as the three of them stumble around and manage to swallow some of the dried food. Fenris slips out of the camp and nearly drowns himself in a nearby river trying to get the stink of magic off him. It seeps from the mage like a miasma, staining his clothes and clogging his throat. Hawke doesn't seem to notice it, but Fenris can feel it lapping in waves at him whenever Anders is nearby. Perhaps it's because he hates it that it's all the more noticeable.

As they're moving out, Hawke ruffles his wet hair while giving him a playful smile. Fenris only glares as he smoothes it down, but his heart feels lighter for the show of affection.

The bath proves to be pointless as the rain soaks his armor and the mud cakes his boots. He's dirty again in moments after they kill a few bandits that insist on stopping them. They're showered with blood, and Fenris spits it distastefully on the ground as Hawke gestures for Anders to begin leading them again. That night they find a rock face away from the mud to camp in, and Fenris gathers the firewood for the fire. When he comes back Hawke is leaning against the wall with his eyes closed as Anders outlines some sort of battle plan. Fenris shuts it all out. Hawke will tell him what he needs to know.

Finally they begin to see a change in the world as they get closer North. The sun becomes even hotter, and the vegetation is less leafy and more dangerous with spiky protrusions and animals that bite and sting hiding inside of them. The warmer it gets, the more Fenris ducks his head in the afternoon sun and thinks of Tevinter. Hours in on the fourth day, Hawke comes up behind him and pats him on the back, sneaking a kiss on his cheek while Anders is talking. The mage doesn't even glance behind as Fenris shoves Hawke playfully forward. The human stumbles away with a laugh.

In the early evening, Anders throws his arm out in front of Hawke. "It's just ahead."

"I need to see," Hawke huffs, bending the mage's arm out of his way and stalking forward. Twig is running around their feet in circles. Fenris follows closely behind, and they walk up a hill into a patch of trees and winding vines. Hawke braces his back against a huge tree, Fenris taking another, thinner trunk just across from him and glancing at the fort.

It was smaller than he expected and not a fort at all, constructed out of grey stone and wood. The roof is made out of fine black sheets of metal, and the house is painted a dark tan color. Probably no bigger than Hawke's mansion in Kirkwall, it is very clear this group is only a tiny cell lost out in the woods. Fenris digs his fingers into the bark of the tree as he peers closer. There are only two men guarding the entrance, but there's no telling how many Templars are inside. It appears to be only two levels and not very heavily guarded. He feels suddenly very foolish for worrying so.

Hawke is slinking back toward Anders, and Fenris follows.

"Where are the others?" Hawke demands of the mage. "I can only see two guards. You said it was swarmed."

"Inside, maybe," Anders says quickly.

"That's not an abandoned Circle at all," Fenris sneers. "It's a summer home in the middle of the woods."

The mage appears cornered and lets out a breath. "All right, maybe I exaggerated a bit on the details."

Fenris is right there, and he is ready. Rushing forward, he seizes Anders by the collar and hauls him close. Twig rushes toward the mage and begins biting at his feet. Alight with magic from his tattoos, Fenris snarls at the mage, "What else have you been hiding?"

"I _exaggerated_, you fool," Anders glares. "Meaning that it's not half as dangerous as I made it out to be." Glancing around the elf, he looks at Hawke. "Look, I needed you to come with me. Lavisse…I made her a promise. And Marni is so young. I'm a mage, Hawke. I can't fight that many Templars. They're weapons made to destroy mages. You know this."

After a pregnant pause during which Fenris stares in absolute disgust at Anders, Hawke puts a hand on the elf's shoulder and squeezes. "Let him go, Fenris."

Fenris lets him go and stalks back to Hawke. "We go inside," the human says to Anders. "We rescue your friends. Then Fenris and I go. You don't follow. You don't ask for my help again. If I see you after this, Anders, I'll grant you the death you're so eager for, and the girls will be alone. Understand?" The words are ice.

"Yes," Anders agrees with a sigh, almost as if he expected this outcome. He unsheathes his staff and sets it on the ground. "There are maybe ten Templars inside. Two at the doors."

"Ten is quite a few," Hawke nods, "but we can handle them together."

Fenris keeps quiet during the exchange. His gloved hand is curled over the hilt of his sword, fingers clenching tight. Ten Templars? They killed hundreds more than that in Kirkwall. Fenris has no worries about the fight. In fact, it will actually be exciting to pit his strength against someone intent on hurting him. Sparring is never as good as the real thing. It is the saving mages that balks him and that Anders has lied to them again.

Hawke taps Fenris on the shoulder with one of his blades, the sleek handle of his dagger arched and tailored for his hand. The fact that Hawke fights with two daggers has always seemed strange to Fenris. There is nothing stealthy about him. He is a graceful giant, muscles full of controlled strength and alacrity. Yet he can disappear in shadows that are barely there, and locks do not stand a chance against him. Were he given a resilient sword, he could do thrice as much damage.

Even looking like a walking corpse, Anders can hold his own. He proved that days ago in front of the bandits. Fenris is nervous about the mage watching his back, but Anders seems to respect and fear Hawke. Based on that, it's unlikely that he would betray them. Still, Fenris walks behind Anders as they take off toward the 'fort'. Raiding it tonight is as good as any night. Besides, isn't it best to get this entire mess over with?

Hawke creeps down the hill by cover of darkness and secures himself to the right of the guarded doors, just behind the corner of the house. The other two approach quietly from the front, each gripping their weapons. When they are just fifty feet from the door, the guards glance up. By Hawke's signal, Anders tosses a fireball right into the chest of one of the Templars, smacking the end of his staff into the ground and knocking the man back. His head strikes the stone with a sickening crunch. Before the other can yell, Hawke rushes up behind him and claps his hand over the man's mouth, sinking his blade into the back of his neck. The guard's eyes roll up into his head, and he goes limp.

"Easy," Hawke shrugs. Already he smells of blood, and it stains his left glove.

"Let us hope," remarks Fenris.

"Come on," ushers Anders. "That's just two. We don't know how much time the girls have."

Hawke picks the lock on the door and gently pushes it open. Inside are six unprepared templars, and they are dispatched quickly. The battle becomes a blur of adrenaline and clanging swords. It's almost familiar to have spells flinging over his head and lightning crackling in the air, buzzing over his skin. The acrobatics stretch unused muscles, and the rush is something he's missed. No one is injured, and Hawke has a spark in his eye that Fenris hasn't seen since before Anders blew up the chantry.

There's a grand staircase draped in tattered cloth to the right. Anders checks a few of the doors downstairs first, but there's only a bedroom, a storage closet, a kitchen, and a small dining room. Fenris shoves one of the bodies over with his foot and removes the Templar helmet. The boy can't be more than twenty years old. He's blonde and rather handsome, staring up with frightened, dead eyes. The elf closes them before searching his pockets. Only a few coins are on his person and a letter from a lover somewhere in Antiva.

Hawke paws over a female officer, turning her head from side to side and twirling her weapon on his hand. It's a fine blade, inlaid with lyrium and silver, but the daggers that Hawke owns were bought for him by his mother and given as a birthday present. Sharpened and enchanted to perfection by Sandal, the blades are nearly priceless. Fenris knows that Hawke will never give them up. The human violently shoves the blade through the floor next to the woman's head and lays her hands respectfully over her stomach.

"So much death," Hawke sighs regretfully, eyeing the door that Anders has disappeared into. "This could have been avoided."

Fenris's voice is soft as he says, "I told you. You regret death when you are the cause of it, Hawke. You should never have agreed to do this."

The human doesn't agree or say anything, just calls for Anders.

With the mage in tow, they creep up the stairs. Fenris opens the doors ahead of the rest of them, peeking behind each. The long hall promises an ambush. They've killed eight guards. There are supposed to be twelve if Anders's information is accurate. That calls for caution.

Ironically, it is in the last door at the end of the hall that they find the last four guards. As Fenris opens the creaking, wooden door, an arrow shoots blindly toward him. Hawke yanks him out of the way just as the shaft grazes his cheek and clashes against a wall a few feet away. Anders chokes. It's a sign that one of the Templars has activated his draining powers. Fenris nods at Hawke in thanks and barrels through the door straight into the chest of a man who was clearly not expecting it. Drawing back with a great swing, the man sprays blood everywhere as Fenris cuts through the tendons in his neck and slices off his head.

A woman screams. Hawke shoots into the room with quick steps and cuts, sinking his daggers into all the right places. Scorching fire spreads along the walls, and Anders must have gotten his mana back. The heat makes Fenris cough as his blade crashes against a burly man in his late thirties. It's buried deep into his stomach, and he gurgles before falling over.

When the elf turns around, he sees three bodies bleeding and twitching on the ground. The last is flailing wildly as the fire consumes his clothes and hair quickly. The stink is something he hasn't missed, the smell of burning flesh filling the small space. He covers his nose with his arm and accidentally smears blood along his face.

"Lavisse!" Anders calls, and Fenris looks over to see a young woman tied to the wall. She has filthy black hair and slanted eyes. Her skin is dark and oily, her clothes torn. Tears spill over onto her cheeks as Anders rushes over and burns the rope from her hands. The rope has left painful marks on her wrists.

"Maker," she trembles as he gathers her into a hug. "You have good timing, Anders. They were going to move me tomorrow morning. I didn't think you would come."

"Of course I came," he pulls back to grip her hands. "Wait, did you say 'me'? Where's Marni?"

The tears fall in earnest. She glances away. "She's…d-dead. She resisted, and…"

Hawke rubs his eyes with a sigh. Blood dots his face, and his lip is busted from a well-aimed punch. He meets Fenris's gaze and gestures with one hand toward the door. Fenris walks towards it without hesitation.

"You understand," Hawke whispers to Anders's back as they leave.

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><p><strong>14 days? That's ridiculous. I don't even know why I'm so mean to Anders. He's a good character. Thanks for reading. Review please.<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: Paradise for Lesser Men**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: The chantry is destroyed. Hawke and Fenris find solace on an abandoned farm. MaleHawke/Fenris**

**A/N: Thanks for reading. Review please.**

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><p><span>Chapter 6<span>

The trip back is far more pleasant without the threat of death hanging over their heads and the gentle lapping of magic making Fenris tense. Camps that are no doubt just as dingy beforehand are more comfortable when it's just the two of them. They even speak a little, and the mushy wheat soup that Hawke makes tastes mildly edible. The stars twinkle in the sky, and they say no more about Anders and his damnable cause. Fenris is mildly surprised that it is over so quickly and the mage is not following them but incredibly grateful if a little suspicious.

On the third day when they are entering slightly familiar terrain, Hawke demands they stop and make camp under two large trees that are entwined together. After a short rest period, Fenris goes to gather firewood as Hawke sits and sharpens his blades. After dinner is made—thankfully not the slimy soup but a quick meal of bread and dried meat—Hawke is lounging against the large trunk with his arms crossed and his knee crooked, watching the dying flames.

Twig gnaws on a stick rather viciously, occasionally taking off with it into the dark and disappearing. Fenris is sharpening his blade, a nervous habit he picked up after killing Hadriana. Somehow the rhythmic metallic ring settles his nerves and puts him at ease. Sparks fly from the whetstone onto the grass. He's been at it so long he's almost asleep where he sits, his legs aching from walking all day even as they are crushed under his own weight.

"Should we go back, Fenris?" Hawke lifts his chin.

For a moment, the elf has to claw his way back to consciousness and run the words over in his head to understand their meaning. "To the farm?" he asks to clarify.

"Yes," the human's gaze is level. "You've had doubts since the start. I know you want to keep moving, but…we can't do that forever. I want to go back. But it's not just about me anymore. So I'm asking what you want."

Very meticulously, Fenris sets the whetstone and his sword aside. He brushes some of his annoyingly long hair from his eyes and curls his hands in his lap. "I want your safety, Hawke, and mine. Peace, somewhere far away from magic."

"You know that's impossible," Hawke's eyes fall. "Especially since I'm going to call on Bethany the second I can. This war is going to keep us from enjoying peace for a very long time."

Twig growls and flops over, his stick going flying out of his mouth. He takes off after it. Fenris's voice is resolute as he says, "Your sister is strong like you. If anyone can resist temptation, it's her. What I mean is that I don't want to deal with Templars or mages. You've fired off the first shot. Now each side is fighting the other. Must we get involved?"

Hawke swipes his face with the palm of his hand. He appears weary, as though something is weighing on his mind or this has been bothering him for some time. "They're after me, too, Fenris. I can't just ignore them. Both sides if what Anders has done recently is any indication."

"But _we_ can evade them," Fenris argues. "You don't have to run after every mage that calls for your help, Hawke." He means it. Living on the run for three years, he learned to take care of himself first and ignore other people, even if it meant they would die because of it. He became selfish. Despite what Hawke has taught him, he believes he can revert back to that basic instinct if Hawke's life or freedom is at stake.

"Don't I?" the human demands. "When I took up my sword to defend the mages instead of following Meredith, I accepted the role as champion for them. I'm the one they're looking to, not Anders. He knows that. It's why he came to the farm. Not because he needed help with twelve Templars out in the middle of the woods, but because he wanted to prove to those girls that I was still willing to fight for them."

Fenris is shocked by this revelation. He bites his bottom lip in an uncharacteristic show of agitation, and his tattoos begin to faintly glow. It makes sense. Anders's assertive arguments, his insomniac behavior, his absolute insistence that Hawke come with them, and his exaggerating the circumstances the girls were held in all clicked into place. The mage was expecting a glorious death, flying in the face of the oppressive Templars. To become a posthumous champion, but Hawke ended up taking his place by sparing his life.

"He made her a promise," Hawke snorts in disgust. "A promise that I was alive or at least still fighting for them. A promise that included me. It had to. You and I have both seen what Anders can do. He can kill twenty Templars with that demon buddy of his. I'm not sure whether or not this entire thing was just a test or some sick game, but it's why I left without even checking for the other girl."

"He tricked you again, and you left him alive." It sounds like an accusation. Maybe it is.

Hawke rubs the back of his neck. "Yes, and for the same reason. Practicality. It's better this way. Anders can help the mages in a way that I won't. He can lead this rebellion, whereas if I'd killed him I would have to lead."

"_Vishante kaffas!_" Fenris swears, slamming the palm of his hand into the ground. He glares. "Why can you not realize that you don't have to do anything? You are not even a mage! Bethany is safe, Merrill is safe, and Anders is not your problem. They are free to fight because of _you_. Why can't you let them?"

After a moment, Hawke sighs. "Did you know that my father was a mage, too, Fenris?"

"Yes," the elf replies tersely.

"A few months before Lothering fell, my father was killed by Templars," the human tells him. "They were just trying to take him back to the Circle, but he fought back. We couldn't even claim his body because Bethany would have been next on the chopping block. I guess I just don't want to see that happen to anyone."

"Hawke," the elf begins, "you can't fix the whole world. What happened to your father, your family, was horrible, but it's over. Your sister needs you now. The more danger you put yourself in, the more likely it is that she'll have to face the Templars all alone."

"This war will go on for years, Fenris," Hawke snaps, cutting the air with his hand in a gesture of agitation. He's finally lost his patience. "Commanders will rise and fall. People like Anders are too caught up in their own affairs to win any ground. Justice will consume him, even if he thinks he's strong enough to withstand it."

"So let them fall," Fenris says, getting to his feet. The glow in his tattoos is becoming more vivid. "They deserve no less. Anders deserves no less."

Hawke remains where he is, but his muscles are tense. His eyes are cold chips of glass. "All those people died to get this revolution started. I can't let it fall to pieces."

"Your life is on the line, now, too!" he growls in response. "The Seekers and the Templars want you dead for what you've done to their order. Anders did this to you! This entire revolution has cost you more than it's worth."

"Don't you think I know that?" Hawke finally climbs to his feet, smacking himself on the chest. "I'm the one that had to endure it. All these decisions were on me! Do you think I haven't stayed up for hours at night thinking that Her Grace might still be alive if I'd just killed Anders or refused to help him? I knew he was planning something sinister! I _knew_."

Fenris takes a few steps nearer, and the heat of the fire is burning his bare feet. He doesn't care. He's ever closer to Hawke, and he can see the controlled violence in his muscles. "So let her death be for nothing, because a rebellion is what they want! This is like rewarding a child because he has thrown a tantrum!"

"You don't know what it's like to grow up as a mage, Fenris," Hawke yells, and the sound is deafening. "Or even to grow up trying to protect one."

The elf isn't quailed, though he's scarce heard Hawke raise his voice at all. Instead, he's only more incensed. "You don't know what it's like to be the slave of one. I've seen the power and dark magic of the magisters. What will happen to the innocents you're trying to protect when the mages begin to seek more power to win this war? Will you become like Ser Thrask, blindly turning your head away from an occasional bloodmage or an abomination until one stabs you in the throat?"

"You would compare my leadership skills to his? When have I ever let a bloodmage that I thought was harmful escape justice? Merrill couldn't hurt a fly, so don't even mention her," Hawke's growls dangerously. "I hunted down abominations and bloodmages for Meredith. No one deserves to repressed. No one."

"You're wrong," Fenris swings his arm out to gesture to the woods. "You've seen it for yourself, the lies of people like Anders. Your own mother suffered the consequences of what happens when mages with ideals are let loose."

In a movement so quick that the elf hardly sees it, Hawke has grabbed his collar in a death-like grip and yanked him closer. Fenris's feet skid over the ground, rocks and dirt tumbling into the fire pit. The words are a warning, hard and unforgiving. "Don't bring my mother into this."

Fenris isn't done pushing, though. He sinks the pointed tips of his gloves into the soft underside of Hawke's wrist until the faint smell of blood is in the air. He speaks softly, with a deadly glint in his eye. "Why, when she's the very reason you shouldn't lead this rebellion? How many other people should lose their mothers like that, Hawke?"

"Fenris, I'm warning you now—"

"Listen to me," the elf snarls, pulling Hawke down so that they're nose to nose. "Would you wish that pain on anyone? There could be a thousand necromancers loose now. If you of all people failed to save your mother, how could anyone else even dream of it?"

He anticipates a slap or a punch, but he is shoved instead. The palm of Hawke's hand smacks hard against his chest and sends him stumbling back quite a few paces. He ends up in a half crouch to stop himself from sliding, his fingers digging into the earth. Hawke's is glaring off to the side, and he suddenly turns and begins walking away.

"Where are you—" Fenris starts, but Hawke holds up a hand abruptly cutting him off.

"_Don't _follow me, because I will hurt you." There's a noticeable tremble in his muscles. He's a shaking bundle of controlled violence, trying to keep his voice steady. Fenris doesn't want to obey. He wants to fight and argue because Hawke is _wrong_. For once in his life, he is wrong. Yet he knows the warning is a wise one to follow. Despite the fact that they are both very competent combatants, Hawke is no doubt his superior. In a real fight, Fenris would lose. He tells himself this over and over as the human disappears between the trees.

Carefully, he unclenches his fist, feeling the earth sift through his fingers. He wills the glow of his lyrium tattoos away and forces himself to try and calm down. Twig walks tentatively out of the darkness and plops down near the fire, whimpering softly. Almost inquiringly. The mabari are truly smart animals, but even a child knows when its parents are arguing. Fenris blatantly ignores the dog and glares at the space where Hawke was standing.

If he concentrates, he can hear the hooting of owls off in the distance and the sing of insects all around beneath the snapping twigs in the fire. He tries to pay attention to the sway of the trees, the glaring moon above, and the sound of Twig scratching gently at the ground. Instead, he stands up and violently kicks the ashes in the fire so that a thousand gleaming rubies decorate the grass. Twig yelps and jumps out of the way, bounding away near their backpacks. Ash smears on the elf's foot, the heat hardly bothering him at all. The hot coals sizzle as they come in contact with the cool earth. Fenris clenches his fists and begins pacing.

Every muscle in his body tells him to follow. It's too dangerous in the woods for a lone man. He notices that Hawke left his daggers by the fire and curses the man all the more for it. To be separated like this invites cowardly bandits. And most of all, he doesn't want to fight like this with Hawke because he is all Fenris has left in the world. He's running.

The soundless pounding of his feet around twigs and leaves still alerts Hawke even though he is trying to be quiet. The rogue twists around to meet him head on, and Fenris's charge sends them both sprawling to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Fenris cocks back his fist and connects hard with the human's jaw. Hawke blocks his next attempt with his forearm and shoves Fenris off. The elf loses his balance and falls onto his back, rolling out of the way just as Hawke's fist smashes into the ground where he was.

As Fenris goes to kick him in the stomach, Hawke's long fingers wrap around his ankle and yank him hard. He slides across the ground, the points of his armor digging into the dirt. Hawke straddles his waist, the full weight of the human nearly knocking the wind out of Fenris's lungs. The elf elbows him in the ribs and uses the momentary surprise to hook his leg around Hawke's and twist so that he must either roll or risk breaking his leg. Hawke rolls over but doesn't stay on the bottom. He grips Fenris's shoulders and slams him hard into the ground, cracking his head against it.

Dazed, Fenris doesn't hear Hawke speaking to him. When the blur disappears, he knees Hawke in the stomach and kicks him in the chest so that he flies back nearly into the trunk of a tree. The human recovers quickly and tackles him. Hands go around his waist and haul the lithe body up, flipping him over. Fenris turns it into a sort of somersault, landing in a crouch a few paces away from Hawke. He's panting.

Their sparring is silent, not a grunt or a moan in pain. Hawke is glaring at him fiercely, but there's something warding about the way he holds his hands. For all his skill, he hasn't actually harmed the elf yet. Maybe that's what makes Fenris charge him again.

Hawke anticipates the movement and ducks out of the way. As he moves, the palm of his hand smacks against Fenris's back, using his own momentum to propel him forward farther than he wants to go. The elf twists, though, and sinks his claws into Hawke's upper arm to pull him along. They both tumble into a pile of leaves. Fenris seizes his moment and straddles Hawke's chest, knees pinning down the human's arms. The tips of his armored gloves rest against his throat, dangerously close.

"Fight me," Fenris growls. "Fight me, hit me, argue with me…but don't…don't walk away."

"Fenris—," he pants.

"No," the elf clenches his hands, tips biting into the tender flesh of Hawke's neck. "Cowards walk away, Hawke. You did your best to fight for your mother. You compromised your principles to find her, and that's what a good son _does. _For everything that you are, you are not a coward, Hawke, so don't walk away."

Very slowly, he lets the sharp tips of his fingers glide from Hawke's neck over his chest, shifting so that his thighs are no longer pinning the man 's arms down. Beneath his hands, Fenris can feel his heart thumping wildly. They're both breathing heavily. Hawke's eyes begin to soften, and his hand comes up to cup Fenris's face. He leans into the touch, gripping the human's wrist and meeting his gaze. And this is purely their relationship—this fighting and arguing, awkward words that in the end don't mean as much as actions do.

He expects it when Hawke kisses him, but he doesn't anticipate the rush of pure relief that flows through his bones. His head is pulled down into biting teeth and tongue, and Fenris moans at the feeling of it. Because they were panting already, the kiss is short but deep. "I'm sorry," Hawke apologizes the second they separate. "You're right. I lost my temper."

"I attacked you," Fenris snorts, letting his hair fall in his face.

"Don't you always?" Hawke teases him, sitting halfway up on his elbow to nibble on his jaw. "It seems the only way we can settle arguments is by fighting one another. In the end, it comes down to fists and harsh words. What a pair we are." He's smiling, but there is real sorrow tingeing his words.

The elf avoids his eyes, gently removing the hand from his face.

"Fenris," Hawke calls to him, "it's worth it. _You're _worth it."

"You don't have to assure me like I'm some doubting wife, Hawke," Fenris tells him irritably, but his heart swells in his chest.

The human smiles, a trace of aggravation left. Neither has forgotten the argument, just realized that it is silly to talk about now. One of them will use it for ammunition later. Hawke will no doubt bring it up again soon. "It's good you're not doubting. I love you too much now to go back to being friends."

Fenris swallows. "With everything that's happened, I don't think that would be possible."

"No, it wouldn't be," Hawke says seriously. He bats Fenris's smaller hand out of the way and grips his head, thumb resting just beneath his eye, the rest of his fingers beneath his pointed ear. "Someone needs to kick my ass every once in a while, and I'd rather take a few punches from you than walk and think you might not follow."

"I'll follow," the elf says softly, carding his hand through Hawke's hair.

It must be the effects of two headstrong people trying to coexist. To love even through all this frustration and bloodshed is a miracle. Fenris tries not to question it. He knows most couples—is that what they are? Lovers? Comrades? Partners?—don't throw punches. They snuggle up to each other and go out to dinner and hug and kiss in front of others. There's no violence and no pain. No struggle, at least not life-and-death struggle. He's not sure he'd ever want that.

Something passes between them in that moment. Perhaps it's understanding. Fenris looks into Hawke's eyes and sees that he's thinking the same thing. No, they aren't normal. Does love have to be? All he knows is that he wants this more than anything in the world. It's why he started the argument in the first place. He wants Hawke safe, not fighting for people that harm and destroy by nature.

Hawke shifts beneath him, sitting up so that Fenris is straddling his legs. "I'll think about what you've said," the human murmurs. "I can't promise you more than that."

After a few quiet moments, they both stand up and head back to camp. Twig is sleeping by Hawke's blades, and Fenris awkwardly explains the sad state of the fire. He's too tired to really care about the scattered mess, and Hawke doesn't push him to make it back up. It's late at night anyway, and they would have to put it out soon anyway. That night Fenris doesn't sleep in the same bedroll as Hawke, but he does sleep close.

In the morning, all traces of aggression and reproach are gone. They gather their things quickly and start off, Twig bounding excitedly at their heels. It takes most of the morning to reach the farm, and Fenris is relieved to see it off in the distance. Hawke puts his arm around Fenris's shoulders and kisses the top of his head. Almost as if to say, "We're home."

Both toss their things in the main house. With a wink, Hawke takes an old bar of soap, a broken bit of mirror from upstairs, and his daggers toward the river. Curious, Fenris follows. He watches as the human strips down to his plain, cotton pants and washes the blades in the river. The flow of the water is mesmerizing when tinged with the faint red left on the dagger. Twig splashes about in the stream, shoving his face in after stray fish. Fenris sits at the bank cross-legged, peering into the depths with his sword lying on the grass. It's too cold for a bath just now. He doesn't feel particularly dirty, either.

Hawke uses the soap to lather up his hands and smear it across his black beard. Soon his chin and neck are covered with the suds, and Fenris observes as he brings his blade up and smoothly shaves away the bristles.

Fenris slides his hand through the water, watching the ripples. The startlingly simple question of what now comes to his lips, but he fights it back. He thinks of the house and how much they still need to rebuild. The fence is a wreck. The entire upstairs of the main house needs to be cleaned up, the toys thrown away, the ratty furniture burned, and the floors swept. With the porch torn down, it will need to rebuild now, too. Staying in the barn is silly when the much sturdier house is just around the corner.

Twig is soaking when he bounds into Fenris's arms, and the elf can't help the delighted laugh that escapes when the animal snuggles close and begins licking at his jaw. He pets the wet fur and holds the dog back, shoving his back legs in one direction. Twig takes off at a rampant pace through the water and to the other side. Fenris wipes the slick saliva from his face and picks up his sword. Dipping the blade in the stream, he uses his hand to brush the clinging bits of skin and blood from the shining surface. When it's clean, he can see his face reflected in the steel and pushes the sword away.

"That's better," Hawke announces, appraising himself in the mirror. Fenris glances at him. With the black hair gone, one can see the square shape to the human's jaw and the growing bruise because of their fight. He is more handsome without the beard, more familiar to Fenris. This is the Hawke that led the mages against the Templars in the battle of the century. "I think I've had more comfortable shaves, though." His fingers press into the purple at his jaw.

"I'm certain that daggers make poor razors," Fenris notes quietly.

"That's true."

A wind whistles through, rustling the leaves in the trees. Fenris asks, "Are we rebuilding the house?"

"I don't see why not," Hawke answers, running his hand through his hair and watching in the mirror. "We're here, aren't we?"

"Yes, we are."

"Will you cut my hair?" the human inquires suddenly. Fenris glances sharply at him. "I can't very well hold the mirror and cut it with a dagger. It's getting in my eyes, and since you're so concerned with my safety, I thought you might like to help. Won't be too useful in a fight." He shrugs.

Fenris has never cut another person's hair and certainly not with a dagger, but he is willing to give it a try. He walks over to Hawke and holds his hands out for the weapon, standing behind him. Hawke lets the mirror fall as Fenris begins to shave away long strips of hair. The fine, black strands fall away easily with the sharpened blade. He tries his best to make the ends even, but Hawke's hair normally just sticks up in every direction. When the elf is done, he ruffles the human's hair and watches the stray bits fall on the grass.

"Hey," Hawke complains, catching his hand. "You're messing it up." He's teasing.

Fenris scoffs. "It's not perfect, but it should do."

"Want me to cut yours?"

The elf touches his snowy hair, pulling a tendril over his eye. "No." When it gets too long, he'll cut it himself. His hair has always grown rather slowly, and he cut it shortly before the world went crazy and they had to leave Kirkwall.

"Come here," Hawke tugs on his arm, and Fenris allows himself to be folded into the embrace. His back presses against the human's broad chest, strong hands splayed over his belly. A chin rests on his head. "Thank you."

"It's just a haircut, Hawke," Fenris reminds him.

"I know," he says softly in reply, and the elf thinks perhaps that's not what Hawke is thanking him for. He doesn't bring it up, just sits there in his lover's arms for a little while longer. Twig appears from between the trees and climbs in his lap. Fenris holds the bundle of fur in his arms, the pup's weight heavy on his thin legs. He bears it. For a moment, it almost feels like family. Like this is where he belongs.

After a while Hawke's legs fall asleep, and they both get to their feet. Hawke takes his hand and leads him back to the house. It's almost evening time, but Fenris manages to convince the lazy human that they could be rebuilding the porch by now. He finds the lost hammer after a few minutes, and the both of them manage to build the base by the time it starts raining. The base is just a bunch of crisscrossing boards that will act as a foundation for the top. Fenris has never fancied himself as a carpenter, and he hopes it will hold their weight. As far as he knows, Hawke is no wiser in that area than he.

Rain-heavy clouds blacken the sky and make Hawke light the fire a little earlier than he normally would have. It's quite the blaze because he brings down a dresser and paper from upstairs to use as kindling and firewood. Everything outside is wet, and they didn't prepare anything for when they left. Hawke swears as he burns his finger.

It's only a light drizzle at first, but the thunder and lightning outside warns them to stay inside. Fenris hangs his hand out of the window with a dirty rag in it from upstairs and uses the rainwater to rinse away the blood from his armor. It's crusted and flaky, but it doesn't come off easily. He has to scrub carefully at the edges to remove most of it. His gloves are drowned in it.

Hawke doesn't treat his armor with the same kindness. The plates are made out of dragon skin, the spikes of melted bone and claws and steel. When they slayed the animal in the bone pit, Hawke had to make a trophy out of it. It's remarkable how resilient a dragon's hide is. What's even more amazing is how horribly Hawke treats the only protection he has against attackers. Earlier, he peeled it off without ceremony and tossed it in a corner with his freshly wiped blades. At least he takes care of those.

Fenris watches him in his peripheral. He's holding a very abused book in his hands, sifting through the pages quietly while Twig sleeps soundly in his lap. The gentle crinkle of paper reminds Fenris of those lazy days in summer when he and Hawke would sit outside on the balcony and read, the wind in their hair, needing only the warmth of each other. Reading became something intimate between them then. He looked forward to his weekly lessons even in those early years when things were still awkward because of his leaving. Now they have no books. It almost makes Fenris a little forlorn.

"Where did you find that, Hawke?" Fenris asks, nodding at the book.

"This?" Hawke chuckles warmly. "It's Bethany's. I took it with me before we left Kirkwall. The rain hasn't been kind to it." He pats the spine where the many creases weaken it. "It's just a collection of short stories. Nothing profound."

A reminder of his sister, then. "Have you read it before?"

"Dozens of times," he smiles. "She used to make me read it to her when she was sick, which was quite often in Lothering. I'm not sure she knows I still have it. When we were rushing out the door, I just grabbed what I wanted. As practical as I am, I couldn't leave this little book behind."

"Hawke, your sister…Bethany's freedom…it's worth fighting for." The words spill out of his mouth before he can control them. How strange. Years ago he wouldn't have thought he'd ever think a mage worthy of freedom.

Hawke's smile turns sad. "I'm glad you think so because I'm not sure I can promise you I'll stay out of this fight. Even if you don't think I have a part in it, I know the truth. I am this war."

He wants to argue. Anders is this war. Bethany is this war. Merrill is this war. It's theirs to fight, to bleed for. But he stops himself because he doesn't want to start another fight. Bethany is a mage, and Hawke will fight to the death and beyond for her. Fenris has seen what the human is capable of doing when his family is in danger. If it's Bethany's war, that means that Hawke will make it his no matter what.

"You'll do what you think is right, Hawke," Fenris sighs. "It's all you can do in this situation."

"If the battlefield calls, I'll have to answer," the human frowns. "It'd be nice to see you by my side."

Fenris wants to roll his eyes, but he thinks that would ruin the moment. Instead, he glares. "You have to ask? I told you before that nothing could keep me from you. I defended mages in Kirkwall. I'll do it again. For you." He scrubs viciously at the bloodstains in the grooves of his gloves.

He doesn't pay attention to Twig's whine as Hawke removes him from his lap. He ignores the footsteps that get louder until they stop right next to him, and he sighs when Hawke takes his hand. He's resistant when the human tugs him to his feet.

"Hawke," he complains, looking pointedly at the dirty armor on the ground. It needs to be cleaned. When he meets Hawke eyes, his mouth goes dry.

There's dark desire and want there. Hawke's fingers touch his face, and an arm wraps around his waist. "Maker, I just realized I haven't touched you in over a week," the human's breath ghosts over his lips. "Let me."

Fenris is compliant as Hawke seals their mouths in a hungry kiss.

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><p><strong>I had a dream that I was under some wine red blankets crying because no one would publish my work, and Varric crawled under there and kissed me. O.o I am playing too much Dragon Age 2. Thanks for reading. Review please.<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: Paradise for Lesser Men**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: The chantry is destroyed. Hawke and Fenris find solace on an abandoned farm. MaleHawke/Fenris**

**A/N: Thanks for reading. Review please.**

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><p><span>Chapter 7<span>

Fenris wakes up on the hard floor with an arm thrown over his eyes. A blanket is tucked carefully about his naked hips, and he's been moved away from the black ash of the fire pit. At some point he must have thrown his hand in it, because it's covered with soot. Birds chirp delightedly outside, and the cool, crisp light of an overcast day creeps inside the broken entrance of the main house. As the elf sits up, he feels the gelid air more acutely.

"Agh," he groans when Twig jumps on his stomach, heavy paws digging into his ribs. He shoves the animal off and rubs the sand out of his eyes. Somewhere outside is the same rhythmic pounding he heard only a few weeks ago. His bones ache, and there are bite marks and bruises on his body, courtesy of Hawke. Slinking lazily to his feet, he keeps the blanket around his waist and goes in search of his pants.

What he finds is his armor, shined and buffed and devoid of any drops of dried blood. Every last piece is assembled next to his clothes, and he touches the sharp metal hesitantly. He doesn't remember cleaning it last night. Did Hawke do this? Suddenly, Twig sinks his puppy teeth into the blanket around Fenris's waist and tugs, whipping his head back and forth. The elf sighs and drops the blanket. What's the point? It's just him and Hawke.

After he yanks on what appear to be clean clothes, he straps into his armor and sheathes his sword. It's reassuringly heavy on his back, pressing into his spine. By the time he is done, Twig is twisted frantically in the blanket, wiggling all around the floor with the cotton draped over the top of him. He's growling at it, tumbling into their packs. Fenris smiles but doesn't help. Dogs must learn.

Outside, Hawke is working on the deck. The transition from mostly dark to the blazing sun of a bright day causes Fenris to nearly trip as he walks outside. The human is crawling across the newly built floor with his armor clinking, knives glinting on his back. The deck is halfway finished, boards that are not nailed down placed where they should be in preparation. Fenris skirts around him and crosses his arms, the heated wood warming the bare soles of his feet.

"Hawke, is that—are you smoking?" the elf blinks incredulously.

Hawke leans back on his ankles, plucking the cigar from his mouth and staring at it. "Yeah, I was in town buying your clothes. I thought, 'Why not?'" Sucking in a breath, he holds it out to Fenris.

"I didn't know you smoked," Fenris replies, plucking the cigar from his grasp and staring at it. It's wrapped simply in brown paper and gives off a cloying scent. Danarius smoked them when he was still alive. Fenris has never seen one up close. The women were often the ones to serve cigars. Tentatively, he places it between his teeth and breathes in. Smoke fills his lungs, and he coughs.

"I started after Father died. Bethany went to the Circle, you left, and Mother was murdered. I did it to calm my nerves. Then a bit more frequently when the Arishok started sizing me up, and the Templars became less and less friendly toward our little gang," Hawke explains with a gentle smile. Graciously, he accepts the cigar back. Fenris is still coughing. "I didn't have reason to smoke when you were around."

He wasn't aware that Hawke had nerves or that he needed to calm them in any way. He knows how to handle any situation and when to be serious or teasing. He's like a lazy mabari basking in the sun, occasionally running off other animals that bother him. This news makes Fenris wonder just what Hawke is feeling underneath his lackadaisical exterior. Talking between them is useless. It just leads to fights. Yet, that there is something about Hawke he didn't know makes him feel out of the loop.

"I see," Fenris grouses, rubbing his throat. The scent is intrusive and sweet, but he can feel his heart picking up a notch and a slow buzz washing through his veins.

"Don't frown at me," Hawke slips his fingers into the hooks in Fenris's belt and tugs him closer, throwing the cigar away. The elf allows it and stands with Hawke's head at level with his belly, the human's smile blinding. "It's just a slight indulgence."

"I'm not chastising you." After all, Hawke used to buy him wine back in Kirkwall. More than once the elf dipped into the human's personal storage without his consent when the thought of Danarius's spider-like fingers on his skin became too much to bear. How can he refuse Hawke a bit of chemical help? The circumstances are perfect for it.

Suddenly the human frowns and reaches up, smoothing back the hair from his forehead. "I wish you would cut your hair. I can't see your eyes."

"Later," Fenris tells him, brushing the hand away. "We have work to do, don't we?" With the walls finished and most of the front porch done—it could be completely rebuilt within the hour—he wants to work on the upper level and maybe patch a bit of sore spots in the fence.

The corner of his lover's mouth twitches up. "Tactful way to distract me." Getting to his feet, Hawke tosses the hammer onto the ground. The human is close, and the scent of sweat and tobacco comforts and repels him at the same time. Hawke's hands rest on his hips and force him backwards. Sharp pain stings him in the back when his sword crashes into the wall; he hisses. Nonchalantly, Hawke unbuckles the sheathe and lets it fall to the ground, nipping at his pointed ear and kneading his sides through the mesh of his armor.

"How about we start here, on the porch?"

Fenris pushes half-heartedly at Hawke. "We don't have time for this." There's real agitation in his voice, but it's weak.

"Why?" Hawke chuckles, the rumble vibrating in the elf's chest. "You have somewhere to go? An appointment to keep?" He kisses at the hollow of his throat, tracing the crossing pattern there with his tongue.

"We could be finished with the entire main house _today _if we make haste," Fenris swallows.

Hawke laughs, undoing his belt. "I'll make this fast, then. How's that?" he winks and seals their mouths, working at the buckles around Fenris's slim waist. They click apart easily, and the armor falls to the ground with a noisy clatter. Teeth pull at his lower lip, blurry blue eyes staring intently into his with a burning passion. Nails scrape lightly across his ribs, and he sighs into the sensation, burying his sharp gloves into Hawke's silky black hair.

Despite his promise for a speedy tryst, Hawke spends quite a bit of time teasing him. His fingers hook into the waistband of Fenris's trousers and stay there, digging into the soft flesh of his lower belly, petting softly. "Hawke," Fenris growls into the kiss, deepening it further and not giving the human the chance to say anything in response. The smile that tugs on his lips says enough anyway. He has no intent of rushing this, because time does not and will never really concern Champion Noah Hawke.

Hawke shifts his knee between the elf's long legs, sliding even closer. Musky leather and metal clinks together. As teeth sink deep into his collar bone, Fenris lifts his head and catches sight of something over Hawke's shoulder that turns his blood to ice. Reaching toward the hand under his shirt, he digs the sharp tips of his gloves hard into the underside of Hawke's wrist, breaking through the tender skin there. When the human hisses in pain and he's satisfied that the spell has been broken, he shoves Hawke back and tugs down his shirt.

"What was—" Hawke begins but tilts his head as the sound of their heavy boots across the grass get louder. He whips around and stands in front of Fenris with his arms crossed as the elf frantically fixes the ragged state of his clothing, but it's too late. The men have seen them together. A blonde human is staring wide-eyed with his jaw open. He points at Hawke.

"I knew it!" he tells the others enthusiastically. "I knew he was ploughing the elf. I told you."

"Shut up, Calder," the eldest snaps.

He doesn't listen. "I told Elsie. I told her, 'How else you think he got that wild thing to follow him around like that?'. I says, 'Only dog lords mark their pets. Paint them up all pretty like women. Yeah, he's a rich Ferelden come to Kirkwall, and he's brought his favorite bitch with him.'"

One would have to know Hawke to be able to see when he gets angry. His muscles tense almost invisibly, and his eyes narrow by mere fractions. Though he's playful and generally relaxed, Hawke is the Champion of Kirkwall. He is also a bundle of violence when he wants to be. The daggers across his back are all he needs to fell a High Dragon or the entire order of Templars. Fenris bends and picks up his own broadsword.

"Better make him stop," Hawke warns evenly, palming the hilt of his dagger.

The last man has a bow strung across his back. He bounces up and down nervously on the balls of his feet. "Maybe…maybe we should mind our own, Calder."

"Why are you here?" Fenris takes his place by Hawke's side.

"Oy, shut your mouth, elf!" Calder takes a few steps forward. The eldest of them grabs his elbow and yanks him back.

"I apologize for our intrusion. My employer asked me to bring you this." He produces a pouch with two letters and sets the items on the ground. "I beg your pardon, ignore my son, Champion. He was…raised poorly, it seems."

"What?" Calder glares at the both of them, looking back and forth. "You mean _that's_—"

The man with the bow leaps toward him and claps a hand over his mouth. "For the love of the Maker, brother, shut up. Don't you know what they did in Kirkwall?"

Hawke takes a few steps forward. "You know me?" he addresses the old man curiously.

"I worked in Kirkwall a few years ago, Champion," he bows his head humbly. He is a pudgy man no older than fifty years with streaks of grey in his inky hair. "I left to be with my family after the Qunari attack. Whatever you do in your private life is no concern of ours or my son's. Please, forgive him."

"Maker," Hawke sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Does anyone else know I'm here?"

"Just the three of us, I think," the old man replies immediately, holding up his hands. "If anyone else has recognized you, they've kept it to themselves. I was not sure, either. There is talk, though, Serah about you and your elf living on this haunted piece of land." He glances around cautiously.

"What kind of talk?" Fenris demands, intrigued and concerned.

Calder elbows the bowman away. "Talk about you and that human being lovers. Yeah, we seen the way you look at each other in town, and what the _Champion _said in the tavern a few weeks ago. He's been keeping you locked up, eh? Haven't been to town in a while, have you?"

"_Calder, be silent!_" the old man yells, his raspy voice hard as stone. His son flinches. "There are rumors only, Serah. It is not a problem at present, but I warn you to be on your guard anyway. These are simple folks with a lot of hatred of elves in their blood. Take to the road again, Champion. If you do not, I suggest you watch over your friend there. These folks have killed men and women that bring elves to their beds, and when they realize how skilled you are, they will go after him."

With a frown, Fenris poses his sword so that it catches the light and shines in Calder's eyes. "I'm more than apt at fighting."

"You cheeky little bastard," Calder snaps, shielding his face with a meaty arm.

"Enough," Hawke snaps at the two of them, putting his hand over Fenris's and angling the light away. He speaks to the old man. "We'll consider your advice."

The old man takes his son's arm. "Of course."

Both of them watch as the three men turn to leave, the human with the bow glancing frantically back every few steps. When they disappear down the road toward town, Fenris sheathes his sword and leaps over the railing of the porch to snatch the letters and pouch. Inside the bag is a bundle of new nails. The letters he takes back to Hawke. They aren't for him.

Hawke remains stoic for a moment, taking the envelopes with a little more force than necessary. Tearing the first open reveals fine parchment with familiar writing scrawled across it. Fenris deliberately drops the nails on the ground and glares at the horizon while Hawke reads. Even this paradise has been compromised. All his previous warnings echo in his ears, but it's not the time to say 'I told you so'. They need to move away from the town and head toward the sea. Maybe they can meet up with Isabela's ship and let the trail fall cold by staying away from land.

A sigh sounds from behind him. "We're in deep shit."

Frowning at the crass phrasing of their situation, Fenris crosses his arms. "We are in danger," he clarifies a bit huffily. "I told you this from the start."

"Unlike you, I'm not a cynic," Hawke says hotly. "Perhaps I gave the people of this village a little more credit than was due, but how was I supposed to know? Humans and elves have been sleeping together for ages. There are enough bloody half-breeds around." Violently crushing both letters into a collective ball, he lobs it angrily over the railing. "Why does everything have to be so damn complicated?"

"Life is not easy," Fenris breathes quietly, more to himself than Hawke. For a moment, he hears distant laughter and the clink of glittering goblets full of blood red wine at a toast. Drawing himself up, he tries to remain in the present. "You have your proof, now, that the townspeople are hostile. We should move on."

"What, and let you win the argument? Not a chance," the human snorts.

Fenris blinks at him, stunned. "Hawke, this isn't about an argument. Our lives are in danger."

"From a bunch of pig farmers with a prejudice," Hawke gestures wildly toward the general direction of the town. "I _like _it here. How much time and money have we put into this house already? You just want to leave that behind and run off with no destination, out _there _where we can run into Seekers and Templars at any point in time?"

"No." He storms forward and jabs his finger viciously into Hawke's chest. Smoldering green meets perplexed blue. "I've had enough. I let you convince me to stay through Anders, and even though it was stupid to stay in one place for so long in the first place, but it's over now, Hawke. Playtime is over."

Hawke smacks his finger away. "I'm not a child, Fenris."

"You're damn well acting like it," Fenris grounds out through clenched teeth. "What did you expect, Hawke? Did you think we'd grow old on this little plot of land? Maybe buy a few chickens? We're fugitives!"

Their lips are crushed together with some force, clicking teeth. Fenris sputters into the kiss, shoving at Hawke's shoulders and succeeding in pushing him away. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I don't want to fight," Hawke tells him unapologetically. "So stop."

"Stop _what_?" Fenris blazes. "Telling you that we're in danger? Will you wait until there's a pitchfork sticking out of your ribs to realize I'm _right_?"

"You _are _right," Hawke concedes immediately, putting his hands on Fenris's shoulders, spider-like vices clamping down on bone. "But we can't leave."

"What do you mean, we _can't_?" Fenris demands, suddenly wary.

"Bethany is coming here."

Fenris pauses. "What?"

"I invited her here a week ago," he admits, meeting the elf's gaze. "I slipped a letter to one of my contacts. The war isn't going well, Fenris. She's in danger. I thought it'd be better for her if she was by my side. Now…this…"

"And you didn't tell me," Fenris states flatly.

"Obviously not."

Narrowing his eyes, the elf demands, "Why?"

The hands slide away, and Hawke puts his fingers to his temples. "Because it was an invitation. I wasn't sure she'd accept. Turns out she did. Isabela is delivering her here while Varric watches her ship. They were close to this location, apparently."

"_Festis bei umo canavarum_," Fenris whispers heatedly and turns away, resting his elbows on the deck railing. The warmth of the baked wood bites into the soles of his feet. To bring Bethany here is almost a death sentence to her. Being a mage, she is safe nowhere. Now they are in danger as well, and they can't leave until Bethany arrives. "The agreement was to meet with her when we were safe."

"We were safe until recently," Hawke sighs, putting his back to the railing and resting his elbows on it. "I can't predict the future, and I'm not sorry I did it. I miss her. And maybe with Bethany here, we won't be fighting so much."

"Are you implying we need a babysitter to get along?" Fenris bristles.

"I'm _saying _that she can distract us from each other. We're spending all day and night together, and neither of us is used to that. I love you, Fenris, but we clash on everything. You know that," Hawke puts a hand on his shoulder, comforting and friendly. "Would it be so bad for someone to step in before we deck each other?"

Fenris shakes off the question. Despite his incendiary comments, he doesn't want to fight either. "Let's get to work," he says, brushing past Hawke and heading inside. He searches through their equipment for his gloves and slides them on, the leather mitts too large for his slender fingers. He cinches them around his wrists with a rope and heads up the ruined stairway.

They have hauled a lot of the furniture out and burned it by this point. Only the child's bed with the pink toy and the scattered blocks remains. That and the wash basin, encrusted with rust and speckled with a green mold. Fenris visits the washroom and stares into the mirror, completely black with filth. Rubbing at the glass with his glove does nothing, only serves to grime up the pads of his fingers.

At the top, there is a corner of glass not entirely untouched by filth but clean enough to reflect the room. For an infinitesimal moment, something twinkled there, and Fenris took a step back in surprise. Was that an…?

"Fenris," Hawke calls from the doorway, making him jump in surprise. He frowns. "What's wrong?"

"I—" he glances back at the mirror and shakes himself. He must be more paranoid than he thought. "Nothing. Let's get that bed out of there."

Wrestling the bed outside is easier than Fenris thought it would be. The straw mattress is nearly hollow, rats probably abducting the insides for their nests, and over time it has simply become a collapsed bag of cloth. Rotten and water-damaged wood crumbles in their fingers, but they manage to get the thing down the stairs and out near the burn pit. Back in the room, Fenris picks up the pink bunny. His mind flashes back to that moment in the mirror, and he smoothes back the stained fur. It's torn and ragged, a macabre corpse of a child's thing.

Instead of throwing it away, he sets it on the shelving unit above the bed. Hawke shoots him a strange glance. "Someone loved this once," is all he says on the matter. There is something else, though. Wound tightly around the bunny's neck is a faux gold necklace with a blue sapphire set in the middle. It's a tawdry trinket that would fetch no more than a few bits on the market, scratched. In the mirror before, he swears he saw the same deep blue staring back at him through a single, glinting eye.

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><p>Throughout the day, Fenris sweeps while Hawke hauls. As reluctant as he is to stay, something has possessed him. This house has crept inside of him. He wants to see it finished. Restored to its old glory, will this house be as beautiful as he imagines it must have been? Will they see the ghosts that seem to linger here running through the halls, delighted laughter ringing through the rooms? Will it become like the broken pieces of his memory, wraiths that whisper in his ears and then disappear on the wind?<p>

Everything they once owned is lost now. All they have is money and the few possessions they managed to take with them. To Fenris, it's the desire to own something again. This house is absolutely empty with no one to claim it. Lives have been taken here, the ground stained with blood. Beautiful, powerful things have become corrupted by the land around them, destroyed by circumstance and hard times. Like them it is lost and abandoned but slowly being rebuilt. Fenris wants a home at last where there are no threatening mages or wars or viscounts or Templars.

The Maker promises a Utopia if one follows His ways. The others burn in the Void. Maybe there is a middle ground here: place for lesser men to lay down their burdens—a paradise for those who revel in blood and chaos, those who can't live without struggle.

Both of them certainly fall under that category.

By noon the upstairs is taken care of, and Hawke has completely finished the deck.

They leave the main house with wood in a wheelbarrow to patch up the fence. Other than a few stubbed toes, curses, and bleeding fingers, it goes well. Once, Hawke kisses him, seeking distraction. Old arguments and bitterness flavors it, though, and Fenris pushes him away. Diminished, Hawke sighs and admits it's best they return to work. Weeds are choking out what is left of the flowers. Fenris trips over the skeleton of what he assumes was either a cow or a horse as they head back toward the house. As the sun goes down, his stomach growls angrily at him for neglect.

With a little soap and water, not to mention some furniture, the house could be livable. Those were all things that required a great deal of coin, and Fenris wasn't sure if Hawke would spend that on a place they weren't sure they were staying in. In fact, if things turned south fast, they might never see this little farmhouse again. The thought makes him sad as he chews thoughtfully on his bread huddled against the fire as it storms outside. Hawke is busy scribbling in his journal, his food untouched. Twig—strange that he hadn't been seen all day—was slowly organizing slices of bread from Hawke's bag.

Fenris sleeps propped against the wall that night, his arms crossed and his leg crooked out. The messy tangle of blankets is commandeered by Twig as Hawke falls asleep in much the same way, totally forgetting about the soft pallet he made earlier. Sometime in the middle of the night, Fenris is startled awake by a violent dream and sees Hawke shivering on the floor. Crawling sluggishly to his feet, he promptly dumps Twig out of one of the blankets and tucks it around the robust human. Rather drunkenly, he collapses against Hawke and pulls the blanket over himself as well. The wood pressing painfully into his cheek, he drifts.

For once, Fenris wakes up before Hawke and finds that he's in quite a different position than he was last night. He's using Hawke's left bicep as a pillow, the human's arm wrapped around his waist, their legs tangled intimately. Hawke is on his back, a massive lump of fur curled on his stomach. How he's not suffocating, Fenris has no idea.

Shouting outside woke him up in the first place, and a voice calls again. The people are too far away for him to discern the words, but they don't sound hostile. He shakes Hawke, and Twig lifts his head excitedly. "Wake up, Hawke."

The human blinks sleepily at him. "When…when did you get over here?"

Fenris shushes him. "Listen." The voice calls again, a feminine lilt to it.

Deciding to untangle themselves at the exact same time, they're on opposite sides of the room, yanking on armor in a minute. Fenris hunts almost desperately for his blade and finds it by the door. Hawke is rushing outside, Twig hot on his heels.

The sight meeting them sends a rush of warmth right through the elf. He can't help the smile of pure relief that bubbles up. Isabela has her hands cupped around her mouth, screaming Hawke's name in annoyance. Bethany is just at her shoulder, and there's a man with them. Fenris doesn't get a good enough look before Hawke is jogging out to meet them and he's following.

Bethany sees him before long and begins running toward her brother. Cliché romance novel scenarios fill his head, a lover running across a flowery field to reunite with the woman he loves. Despite that, he smiles. There are few people in the world that Hawke loves like he loves his sister. When the two siblings meet, Hawke lifts her up by her tiny waist, twirling her around in a circle. Her arms go around his neck, and she's laughing in his ear. Isabela's deft fingers dart out to catch her staff before it hits the ground.

"Bethany, I'm so glad to see you," he says as he sets her carefully on the ground, hugging her tighter. As Fenris comes closer, he sees her eyes glistening with unshed tears. The separation must have been harder on her than he thought.

"Me, too," she whispers. "Oh, Brother, me, too."

Hawke grasps her hands and takes in her appearance. Her hair is shorter than the last time Fenris saw her, the voluptuous waves cut into a short, spiky cropping atop her head. For some reason, her skin has always been a bit darker than her brother's. The contrast has grown even larger now that she's been aboard a ship for so long. Her eyes twinkle as she smiles.

"Every time I see you, you get even more beautiful, Sister," Hawke says, brushing back some of her hair.

"You're looking worse for wear," she chides. "Have you been eating at all? Look how thin you are."

"Now, now, sweet thing, before this becomes boring. Let me have a turn," Isabela says, her hand on the mage's shoulder. Bethany's cheeks flush suddenly, and she takes her staff back, wiping at her eyes. Cocking out her hip, Isabela dazzles them both with a seductive smile. "Come here, you bastard," she grins at Hawke, reaching up to smash his mouth to hers.

"Isabela!" Bethany gasps, eyes darting to Fenris.

Very politely, Hawke ends the kiss sooner than the pirate would have liked and pulls her into a platonic hug instead. "Oh, relax," Isabela pouts as she's gently pushed away. "It's purely out of sisterly love."

"You didn't see me doing that," argues Bethany hotly.

Suddenly, Hawke glances at the man with them. His eyes widen, and Fenris follows his gaze. "Why, that can't be. Sebastian Vael, you son of a bitch." Sebastian flinches at the insult, but Hawke's teasing. He thrusts out a hand. "I was sure the next time I saw you, you would be hunting me down." Tentatively, Sebastian smiles and takes the offered handshake, gripping hard as Isabela kisses Fenris's cheek.

"Well," Sebastian begins shamefully, "I wanted to actually apologize for that, Hawke. I was…out of line, to say the least."

"Stricken with grief," Isabela ruffles the archer's hair affectionately. He ducks away, frowning at her. "We found him when we were docking near Starkhaven. He was on his way home."

Hawke holds up a hand, forever easy going. "Completely forgotten. It's good to see you. All of you."

Fenris nods at Sebastian. He holds no grudge. After all, his hatred of mages almost landed him on the opposite side. Only his love for Hawke and affection for the rest of the group kept him from making such a mistake. Bethany smiles sweetly at him and pulls him into an awkward hug, patting him on the back.

"It's nice to see you, Fenris," she says kindly. He has never paid any particular sort of attention to her. When she speaks to him, he speaks back. Because of Hawke, he censors his harsh opinions and views for her benefit. On the whole, though, he doesn't dislike her. She is an innocent, unsullied if naïve about the evils of men. He appreciates the rarity if nothing else.

"It's good you're here," he replies.

Isabela hooks her elbow with Hawke's. "So show us this house," she purrs. "I'm sure you lovebirds have quiet the cozy nest."

"I wouldn't call it that," Hawke laughs.

Back at the house, Isabela practically squeals with delight. "It's so…_filthy_," she turns in a circle with her arms up. "There's such a past here. I can practically _feel _the tragedy buzzing through me. Mmm…lovely."

"I can't feel anything," Bethany raises an eyebrow.

Sebastian smiles. "That's just Isabela. Let her have her fun."

"Oh, you two just don't appreciate the depraved like I do," the pirate snorts. "Something did happen here. As a mage, I'd think you'd be able to feel it more than me. Or maybe I'm imagining it, and Fenris and Hawke have just been having really violent sex all over the place."

Bethany's cheeks flush such a bright red, she could rival a tomato. "Isabela, please! I don't want to think about my brother like that."

"So don't," Isabela quips, tossing her midnight hair back. "They're both really quite attractive men. I like thinking about it."

"Maker, Bethany," Hawke sighs, leaning against the wall. "I'm so sorry. Have you had to put up with that since I left?"

"All day, every day," his sister rolled her eyes. "Well, until Sebastian showed up." She sent him a look that suggested gratitude and…a little more. Fenris blinked. Certainly not the two of them?

"You love it," the pirate pipes, appearing at Hawke's side and resting her chin on his shoulder. "Unfortunately, I didn't manage to corrupt her. She's so like her brother. If you ask me, the Hawke family needs to stop being so serious and let me have my giggles. They might enjoy themselves."

"Now you're inviting the both of them," Fenris accuses.

"Of course," she shrugs. "Two's a party, but three is better. Don't frown at me, Fenris. If three is better, how about five?" Her eyes rove lewdly over Sebastian, eyes resting at his waist for quite a while. The prince coughs into his hand.

"No, thank you," Sebastian declines.

Bethany turns positively green. "Having…are you…quite serious? With my…with my _brother_? I—I'd rather be eaten by a dragon."

"Calm down the both of you," Hawke laughs. "She's teasing. I'm suddenly sorry I didn't come with you. Watching you two stutter like that is hilarious."

"Aren't they just perfect for each other?" Isabela coos, delicate fingers resting on Hawke's upper arm. "They can have a chaste—very chaste, mind you—marriage under the Maker and hopefully live far away from us sinners."

"That's not fair," Bethany argues. "Sebastian has taken a very important holy vow to the Maker, and just because I'm not…like _you_ doesn't mean I'm never going to—to have sex." Isabela and Hawke promptly burst into laughter.

"See? She's so fun to tease."

"Why, you! I'm leaving," Bethany huffs angrily, storming out. "The both of you can rot in the Void for all I care!"

"Come back, baby sister," he calls, gasping for air. Even Fenris feels a smile coming to his lips. Perhaps this won't be so bad after all.

Isabela whistles after her. "By all means, leave! It's even more fun to watch you go!"

* * *

><p><strong>Sebastian was a character I respected but didn't really want to romance. We were best friends, and I'd like to sleep with him if I could. But I'd break it off and live in sin with Fenris for the rest of my days. Thanks for reading. You can favorite and review with the same button.<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

**Title: Paradise for Lesser Men**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: The chantry is destroyed. Hawke and Fenris find solace on an abandoned farm. MaleHawke/Fenris**

**A/N: Thanks for reading. Review please.**

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><p><span>Chapter 8<span>

After hours of reminiscing and getting reacquainted with one another again, Hawke convinces the three others to strip down to their work clothes and pull on some gloves. Fenris has to tie a bit of string around the top so that the gloves don't slip off Bethany's very thin wrists. Her beautiful hands flex and move in a way that reminds him of the elven servants in Tevinter. Hawke has convinced her to hang up her robes in favor of a dark shirt that hugs her slim waist and a pair of his own trousers. Ugly brown shoes are fitted to her feet, but she doesn't say a word in protest. Her eyes shimmer like Hawke's do when he works on the house.

Isabela refuses to change, and Sebastian has the luxury of stripping down to his pants and leaving his shirt off. As he sets his armor inside the house, Hawke comes up behind him and slings an arm around his upper torso. "Look at this strapping young man, girls!" he exclaims, dancing out of the way when Sebastian tries to smack him.

Dealing out directions proves easy. The women go to muck out the barn and burn some of the excess moldy hay piled about. It's not good for anything anymore other than providing the large rats a place to make their nests. The men head upstairs to lift the heavy wash basin and shove it out one of the shattered windows to the ground. Sebastian's strength proves invaluable at that point. His carpentry skills also prove to be helpful when he and Hawke consider the sad state of the stairs. Wooden steps are rotted, and boards need to be replaced. The decorative trim is stained black with stagnant water and filth. Fenris is put in charge of tearing the pieces up while the other two replace what he removes.

Sebastian seems to prove a distraction for Hawke. More than once, Fenris catches him standing back from the working party and regarding the chantry boy. It doesn't make him jealous, just curious. Sebastian is handsome by all accounts, especially so when he's dusted with a light covering of sawdust and a thin sheen of sweat. He's well-built, with a lean waist and hard abdomen. His shoulders are strong and wide, suprisingly so for royalty. Hawke doesn't appear to be considering any of that, though, simply concentrating on the man. Considering him. For what, Fenris doesn't know.

In the evening when the stairs are completely rebuilt, the girls return with a menagerie of complaints. Isabela's dark skin is moist with sweat, and her hair is stringy and hanging in her face. Bethany is in much better shape with her shorter choice of style, but she's also sticky with perspiration and red-faced. In exchange for helping the boys drag the wash basin out toward the barn, Hawke shows them where the river is.

Fenris peels off his own filthy clothing and dunks into the stream. It's colder than he would like, but it soothes the pains and soreness away. Goosebumps erupt along his skin, and it isn't long before Hawke joins him. Sebastian is much less enthusiastic about stripping down, but he does eventually climb into the water with his smallclothes still on. After much coaxing and teasing from Isabela, she manages to convince Bethany to get in the water with the boys, too. The pirate wastes no time throwing her clothes away in record time and standing stark naked on the bank.

Hawke snorts at Bethany's blush as she protests again. "We used to take baths together before, Sister," he says.

"Yes," she huffs, "but you were hardly a man then. Besides, it's not just you. Fenris and Sebastian are here, as well."

"So?" Isabela puts a hand on her hip, not even bothering to cover up. Her voluptuous curves are accentuated by the darkening horizon. What scars she does have are tiny and hidden by the chocolate brown of her skin. "I'm not bursting into flame." Fenris notes that Sebastian is deliberately staring at the water.

"Bethany, just get undressed and cool off in your small clothes. That's what Sebastian is doing," Hawke drawls, putting his arm around Fenris's shoulders.

"Aw," pouts Isabela. "I want to see her naked."

"Stop teasing the poor girl," Sebastian scowls. "Not all of us can be as…flamboyant as you."

"That's what they call it?" snorts Fenris.

Tentatively, Bethany slipping off the filthy shirt. "Okay. I can live with that."

"There," says Hawke. "Everyone's happy."

"Not everyone," notes Fenris dully as Isabela whines. She jumps into the water and soaks the lot of them, sidling up to put her arm around Hawke's waist and curl tightly into his side. Hawke puts his arm around her, too, but he's watching Sebastian again. It makes Fenris slightly uneasy. What's going on behind his brilliant eyes? What is he planning now?

Lounging around the river proves to be quite relaxing, and they all scramble out only when it's too dark to see who is pawing whom. Hawke manages to smuggle Fenris away from the rest of the party and drug him with kisses until Isabela begins shouting for them. She finds them quickly considering that it's black as pitch outside.

"I could hear your breathing," she explains dryly, latching onto Hawke and pulling him along. Hawke smiles and uses his prowess and alacrity to escape, shoving Fenris roughly against tree. Their teeth click together as Hawke devours his mouth hungrily. Fingers press too hard into his upper arms, bruising the cells there with the blunt force of his nails. Hawke lifts his thigh and urges him to wrap it around the human's waist.

"Hawke, come out, come out," Isabela whistles. Bethany shouts something at her, but the pirate doesn't respond. It sounds like 'leave them alone'.

Fenris breaks the kiss to gasp to the side as Hawke nibbles down his jaw. Then he nearly falls over as Isabela latches onto his lover again and yanks him away.

"I'm hungry," she whines. "If you want to share the elf, that's fine. If not, come cook us something to eat. We're your guests."

Hawke sighs. "You're interrupting our fun," he tells her quite plainly. Fenris frowns.

"You're the only one that can cook," Isabela reminds him gently.

Stumbling in the woods alerts them to Sebastian and Bethany. The mage's hand is in front of her, palm up with fingers splayed. In the middle is a tiny, flickering flame that throws shadows on everyone's faces and blinds them all quite severely. The other hand is firmly holding Sebastian's, and Fenris doesn't miss how Hawke's eyes flicker right to that spot.

He shrugs. "Well, plan dead, I guess. Let's head to the barn to make a fire. I can't see a blighted thing." Taking Fenris's hand, he deliberately walks straight through their clasped fingers so they must separate.

Sebastian manages to shoot a rabbit off in the woods, and they pool their rations to have a rather pathetic feast. Still, the warm meat is better than the chewy, dry substance Fenris and Hawke have been shoveling down in the mornings for strength. Bethany even manages tea, and Isabela produces three bottles of wine and a bottle of whiskey from her backpack.

"I came to have a good time," she winks at Fenris, tossing the bottle of wine to Sebastian. Hawke leans over and grabs the whiskey before anyone else can. "What's a good time without drinking and…cards?" she produces a pack of weathered cards with a gleaming smile. Bethany cheers in excitement.

"Maker bless you, Rivaini," Hawke salutes her with a now open whiskey bottle and takes a long dreg of it. If anyone is good at holding their liquor, it's Hawke. He can drink Isabela under the table on good nights. Bethany uses her nails to claw at the cork in her bottle of wine while Isabela stands and goes into the back of the barn. Fenris takes the bottle of whiskey from Hawke before he can drink it all and takes a swig himself. It's bitter, but warmth shoots right through him.

A barrel rolls straight into Sebastian's back, nearly shoving him into the fire. "Hey!" he exclaims, moving over. Isabela's leather boot rests on the top of the barrel, her elbow posed and a bottle of wine in her other hand.

"Let's set up a make-shift card table and get drunk like we used to," she proposes.

"I'm all for that," Hawke says, stealing the bottle from Fenris again with a kiss on the cheek and helping Rivaini to set the very large barrel right-side up.

Late into the night, they drink and carry on and sing. Fenris finds himself fighting a smile on more than one occasion, and Isabela become so drunk that she proposes marriage to Sebastian at least three times before passing out on Bethany's lap. The mage is the second to go, falling asleep as Isabela's absence forces the conversation to become a buzzing noise in the background. Fenris drifts away from it, and Hawke taps him on the shoulder.

"Take Bethany and go to bed," Hawke whispers in his ear. "I'll join you shortly."

The three men shift the girls into a more comfortable position on a pallet of blankets near the fire. Fenris lies down away from them with Hawke's blanket tucked around him, and he's asleep in minutes.

Fall has come early this year, he realizes as he jolts awake. Cool air blows through the cracks; Isabela curls even closer to Fenris. Though he is grateful for the body warmth, it is his immediate opinion that she need not be sleeping quite so snug against him. One of her long, human legs is tangled between the two of his, and her arms are wrapped tightly around his thin waist. Her chin rests on his shoulder, lips against his ear. With every breath, her breasts press firmly against his back. As attractive as the position may be for other people, he finds it smothering.

Bethany long ago rolled over away from the two of them. Clever girl.

It's Isabela's crushing death grip that has startled him awake, and he simply blinks at the blanket in front of him without trying to go back to sleep.

He hears Sebastian set his mug of whiskey down. They are still drinking this late into the evening, maybe even early morning. "What happened to your wrist, Hawke?"

"What, this?" Hawke chuckles. "Fenris and I got a little carried away. I wasn't paying attention, and he tried to save me a bit of grief." They are referring to the wound Fenris gave him earlier that day when Calder caught them on the porch. Hawke wrapped it rather tightly before working, but it was bleeding the last Fenris saw.

"Hmm, looks deep," the archer notes. "You should watch it for infection. That's a bad place to slice open."

"I don't think he intended me harm," Hawke replies kindly.

The elf feels a twinge of guilt.

"So?" Sebastian implores. "What do you think of it?"

"Honestly, I'm going to stop hiding soon," Hawke sighs. Fenris has missed a part of the conversation. "I have something of a plan, but I need to convince a few people of its credibility."

"I've seen the devastation. The Circle in Starkhaven revolted. There was death everywhere, and I didn't know which side to help." A sigh and a creak, as though the prince has leaned back in his chair. He swallows. "You _are _going, aren't you." It's not a question.

Someone takes a drink, and there's a pause. "Truthfully, I thought from the very beginning that I'd have to go back and finish what Anders started. I just wanted a reprieve before that started again. I was in the battle at Ostagar, and it wasn't a pretty life. Maybe running from destiny was stupid, but Fenris and I just started getting along again. I wanted…a minute to be with him. Just for a few weeks or days before everything became blood and bone and war again. Even that turned out poorly." Fenris grinds his teeth at that.

"I understand," Sebastian says softly. "Hawke, you're the one they trust now. Anders is being eaten alive by that demon. He loses control more often than not, and he has black-out spells. The mages I've helped fear him. He is, by all accounts, an abomination and an infamous one at that."

"I should have killed him after it was over," the human laments in response. "You were right."

"That's not important. What is important is protecting Bethany and those innocent people who are being dragged into this."

Soft laughter, "My sister isn't going to stand by and watch me do all the work. If I leave, she'll want to come with me."

"It's too dangerous, Hawke," Sebastian says firmly.

"I'm well aware, and I'm curious about the concern you're showing for her. You don't look at her chastely, my friend."

Sebastian stutters, "I-I just…w-we haven't…I—"

"Please, I've seen that smitten look on her face before. I am her brother, after all. She's enchanted by you."

"You really think so?"

"I do."

Fenris can hear one of them swallowing. The candles are burning lower, giving the entire barn a somber look. He can smell the scented wax. Someone kicks a bottle, and it rattles across the floor.

"So…you don't…mind?" Sebastian ventures cautiously.

Hawke snorts. "Not at all. My sister is beautiful, but she isn't stupid. She can handle her own when it comes to men. She's picky, but not as picky as I'd like her to be. After punching out quite a few potential lovers, and getting my ass set on fire for my trouble, I've learned to stay out of her affairs."

"Once I was like Isabela," Sebastian confesses rather sadly. "You've heard the story. I'm not exactly the best choice for her."

"Look, Sebastian," Hawke begins, "my sister has always struggled with her magic. She thinks it's a curse sent on her by the Maker. That she's done something wrong, and she's being punished for it. That you—a devout servant of Him—have looked at her like she's something special has made her happier than I've seen her in a while. She was staring at you all day."

"I'm glad that it hasn't upset you," the prince sighs in relief. "I haven't…I'm still a Chantry brother, Hawke. I would never take advantage of her."

"I know," Hawke replies. "That's why I know you'll be able to look after her."

"Look after her?" Sebastian repeats confusedly.

After a rustling, Fenris's ears prick up at the sound of coins clinking together. He furrows his brow. What is Hawke doing?

"Listen to me," his lover says heatedly. "I want you and Bethany to live here."

Sebastian doesn't answer for a long time, and Fenris is practically holding his breath in anticipation. As Isabela curls her arms further around his waist, he becomes extremely annoyed with her and even considers peeling her off.

"You…_what_?"

"This war isn't going to disappear. In a moment of desperation, I appointed Isabela as honorary guardian of Bethany, but she's captain of a ship. If things get too heated on land, she can't just stay out on the water like she's been doing. Her men will mutiny. They'll run out of supplies. Besides, an entire crew of men that know an apostate is on board will turn her in in a heartbeat."

"Hawke, Bethany and I aren't even that close. We've—there's a connection there, but we're hardly ready to move in together." He sounds as incredulous as Fenris feels.

"Be her friend, Sebastian. Be her lover, her servant, her protector: I don't care. I need you to take care of her while I go off to fight. Take this coin and buy furniture for this place. Decorate it however you please, and hire men from the town to rebuild the barn if you can't do it yourselves. If you need more coin, contact Varric. He'll send more."

"This is too much already," Sebastian replies.

"Then it should do the job. Money means very little to me, Sebastian. Especially when held up against my sister's life."

Crickets outside chirp exuberantly, and the fire crackles. Fenris wishes he could turn around and see their faces. What does Sebastian think about all this? Is Hawke as adamant as he always is, or is there fear and nervousness shining in those forever blue eyes?

"She won't accept it," Sebastian notes quietly.

"Make her," Hawke says instantly.

"I _can't…_I can't just do that. I can't accept this money for…not for something like this."

"Then think of it as a gift for her or money I'm paying you to take care of her. What happens between the two of you is up to you and her. It's none of my business. I think about the men and women suffering out there every night. My dreams are haunted by their ragged faces. I've never been able to sit by when there was a fight about. Despite what Bethany thinks, she'll be more a handicap than anything. Take it. Save her life, and let me save everyone else's."

Sebastian sighs, and the money clinks. "This isn't Ostagar, Hawke. There are no great battles or last stands. It's a mage underground full of mistrust, people being dragged off by the Templars and made tranquil. How do you fight an enemy like that?"

One chair slides back, and heavy boots begin a pacing rhythm. "Anders's little mission gave me an idea for that. If I can round up enough mages—maybe even him, if I can find him again—then we can start hitting their hidden compounds. We can take them out one cell at a time. If we get their attention, we can start peace talks. I'm not a mage. The Seeker's will trust me, or at least think they can win me over to their side."

"And that will let you get close to them, I see. It's…not a bad plan."

"It's better than they have now."

"And what about Fenris? What will this do to him, your leaving to fight for a dangerous cause he has never supported?"

Hawke pauses, and Fenris promptly shuts his eyes. The boots are close. "I think I can convince him to come with me."

"You think?"

"We fight, and we argue, but on a whole, I think he knows how much he means to me. I didn't help him with Danarius to trade one master for another. I'll explain it to him, argue, plead, or beg. Whatever it takes. If…if he wants to leave, I'll understand."

"You'd let him leave?"

Without hesitation, Hawke answers. "I would."

Sebastian groans and mutters something too low for Fenris to hear with Isabela breathing down his neck. "Do you think we can win?"

"I do, but only if we help now. If_ I_ help now. Sebastian, I know you owe me no favors, but do this for me. Please."

"That's another thing, Hawke," the prince says softly. "I betrayed you at the end. I walked away when you needed me because you wouldn't do what I wanted you to. That's not true friendship. That's stubbornness and idiocy. Why trust me with your sister?"

The chair makes a sound as Hawke sits in it, and Fenris twists a little in Isabela's embrace. She makes eavesdropping rather difficult. "Because I've seen the way you look at her. You're not the same man as you were when you were seeking revenge. Friends forgive. I trust you with my life, just as I did and still do with Anders. My trust is unshakeable. Are you worthy of that trust, Sebastian?"

Sebastian doesn't reply for a moment. "I owe you everything, Hawke."

"Here's your chance to repay me."

"I had the impression that you and Fenris were going to live here. Will he be okay with it?"

"I'm not sure," Hawke confesses. "I'll ask him tomorrow. For now, he needs to sleep. Save up his energy for when he wants to smack me for this when I tell him."

"This house is beautiful. Why give it to me?" he sound suspicious.

"Elves and humans sleeping together are a bit of a taboo in this little nook, and at least three villagers know the Champion is here. We need to leave, anyway," Hawke explains. "I'm sad to go. I think Fenris's tattoos are making him sensitive to the ghosts around this place, but I can sense it, too. There's something here. It's ripe with death."

After another pause, Sebastian asks tentatively, "Are you sure about this?"

"Truthfully, I've only been thinking about it for one day. So not really, but I'm going to fight in this war anyway. I'd rather run at the dragon before it comes to me."

"That's not like you at all," Sebastian remarks with some surprise. Fenris notes it as well. Hawke is a known procrastinator and lay about. He never confronts anything, preferring to be confronted instead.

"I'm picking up a lot of bad habits lately," is his simple answer.

"Oh, yes," the prince agrees sarcastically, "honor, nobility, valor, and undying love for those you care about…"

"Terrible things," Hawke says. Fenris can hear the smile in his voice.

A shaky laugh interrupts the silence that follows. "Maker, you are mad."

"It's the only way, Sebastian. Anders started this. It's past time for someone to start trying to end it."

"Why does it have to be you?" demands Sebastian. Fenris rather agrees. "What do you owe the mages? Any of them?"

"Nothing," Hawke replies simply. "My father taught me that everyone is equal and that freedom is worth fighting for. Bethany and Fenris are the only family I have left, and I'll protect them with my dying breath. Making the world safe for mages makes the world safe for my sister. One day she'll be able to have children, and no Templars will exist to take them away. They'll be able to stand in the rain and learn magic the way it should be learned: from their family members."

"It won't be an easy life," Sebastian warns rather futilely. "Who knows when you'll come back? Ten, twenty, thirty years? You could be an old man by the time it's safe."

"If it turns into that, and you aren't prepared to stay by my sister's side until then, leave. I'll arrange something else for Bethany," Hawke says. "I know this is a temporary fix, and I've been thinking about it all day. We'll deal with things as they come. If you want to leave, do so. This isn't a binding contract."

"Just a binding promise," the prince snorts.

"I'm begging you to consider it."

"This is…huge, Hawke. It's not something I can decide in a short conversation," Sebastian grumbles. "Starkhaven is lost to me, now, because of the war. I'm a Chantry brother. It's my duty to help the Templars. You're asking the wrong man."

"I'm asking the only man that can do the job," Hawke responds. "Your position protects her as well. Who would suspect a symbol of the Divine to harbor a mage?"

"Everyone!" Sebastian bursts, then continues much more quietly. "You don't understand the level of mistrust going on out there, Hawke. Templars are helping mages, killing their own brothers. Mages are turning to blood magic to save their own skins. Abominations and demons wander the streets with human faces." The words are heated and laced with desperation.

"When have they not?" asks Hawke bitterly.

Another sigh, this one strained. "I need to think. I _really _need to think about this. A lot."

Someone stands. "Then do so. The war isn't going anywhere, and the more time I get spend with my family, the better."

"Where are you going, Hawke?"

"To bed," the Champion replies sullenly. "I'm tired, aren't you? We worked hard all day. The whiskey's gone to my head. Now this…"

"I want to talk about this some more," the prince presses.

"Tomorrow. For now, let me sleep. I need to think, too." Suddenly Fenris feels warm, calloused hands that are too large to be Isabela's. He shuts his eyes and forces himself to relax, too sleepy to argue and too overwhelmed with information to want to talk. "Come on, Isabela, he's not your pillow." With a grumble and a reluctant sluggishness, Isabela unwinds herself and rolls away, falling back to sleep immediately. The cool air that hits him as their bodies are peeled apart leaves him shivering, but a firmer, larger form takes her place.

These arms don't crush him, but gently fold around him. The press of leather and cloth rather than bare flesh makes him relax, the familiarity of Hawke's spicy scent and heightened temperature lulling him into a drowsy state. "I know you're not sleeping," the human whispers in his ear, fingers splayed casually over his belly. "You can't fool me."

As Fenris opens his eyes and turns around to stare up into crystalline blue, he's beginning to think that is a very true statement. The elf curls his fingers around Hawke's collar. Pressing close together like this, Hawke's leathers bite into the sensitive flesh of his stomach. He doesn't mind, searching his lover's face. At least he's not wearing his Champion armor. "Is this truly wise?" he breathes.

Hawke kisses him, and it's flavored with strong whiskey. "Tomorrow," the human promises.

Fenris doesn't have the willpower to argue. Like the other two, he needs to think first. In a more familiar embrace and without the noise of two men talking, he falls asleep easily. Sebastian, however, exits the barn and doesn't return until morning. By the time Fenris wakes up, Hawke has abandoned him to Isabela's grip again.

He wakes up to the pirate shaking him. She's bleary-eyed and barely conscious herself, but she's staring with definite concern at the barn entrance. Once Fenris blinks at her and stifles a yawn, he realizes why. People outside are arguing rather heatedly. His first fear is that Calder has come back with friends, but the tone of the voice is too high for the ignorant townsman. He nods and gets to his feet rather drunkenly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He stumbles outside to investigate. The grass is wet, and he slides on his first step. Isabela grabs him before he can hit the ground.

Around the north side of the barn, the screaming becomes louder, and he can understand the words.

"You're not leaving me here! Do you hear me, Noah Hawke? You _will not_—"

Fenris clutches the corner of the house to steady himself and blinks at the scene before him, Isabela at his side. It's Bethany who is yelling; small, taciturn, sweet Bethany is shouting with sparkling tears streaming down her face. Her eyes are rimmed red, and she's attempting to shove her brother back, beating at his carapace with her fists. Hawke's countenance is schooled into an expression of resolute determination, laced with an undertone of pain. He holds her shoulders, staring past her. Sebastian is off to the side with his arms crossed, glaring at the ground.

"What in the name of the Void is going on here?" Isabela voices, cutting Bethany off.

The mage storms forward, yanking away from her brother. She points an accusing finger at Hawke. "He's going off to fight the Templars, and he's _paying _Sebastian to stay here and _hold me hostage!_" she shrieks.

Hawke groans. "It's not like that."

Fenris glances at Sebastian. "You agreed?" he asks quietly, mildly surprised.

"I did."

"It's just a safety measure," Hawke says. "I want someone here to help you if you were to get caught by the Templars. Sebastian is a chantry brother. He's the best person—"

Bethany jabs him in the chest with her finger. "You're trying to keep me from helping you! What is it with you, Brother? Do you have some sort of—of _death wish_? Is that it? Do you want to die? That's my brother, the Champion! Won't be happy until he's cold and six feet under, dying for some honorable cause!" Fenris has never seen her so furious before. Suddenly she does not seem so innocent. This woman could do some serious damage.

Hawke gently takes her hand. "Bethany," he says calmly, trying to get her attention. She rips away.

"Stop it!" she yells. "I don't want to hear your bloody _lies_!"

"Bethany Hawke," her brother says loudly. "Stop being an hysterical _female _right now, and use your head!" He shakes her by the shoulders.

Bethany blinks up at him incredulously, a jointless doll in his hands.

"'Female'," Isabela sniffs.

"For once in my life, I'm not really trying to be protective brother right now," Hawke growls. "Yes, I'd like for Sebastian to hold you hostage, but he wouldn't do that for me. Yes, it's rather convenient that he's here, but I'm not paying him anything. He's doing this of his own free will, stopping you from _getting in my way_."

The mage tenses up. "In your way?" she repeats dangerously.

"I'm going to war," Hawke tells her rather simply, shoving her backwards in a rough display that Fenris has never seen him show toward his sister. "It's a hard life with mud and rain and death and blood around every corner. Enlistment made my life war. I'm used to it. You're too soft, Sister. You're used to someone protecting you, and I can't do that and save your people at the same time."

"Brother, I _won't _get in the way," she says fervently, wiping at her tears. "I promise."

"Letting you come is not an option," Hawke says, and that fierce determination is back. "I'll tie you down or lock you up before that happens. You're staying here."

Finished with being a compliant young lady, Bethany stands toe-to-toe with her brother, her bird-like body shaking with anger. He's so much bigger than her, practically a wall of muscle and sinew and control. Fenris can't believe she thinks she can win. "You're not the boss of me, _Champion_."

"Stop being a child," Hawke spits.

"Quit treating me like one," she replies scathingly. "I'm not five year old Bethany, poor frail Bethany that needs to be led about by the hand like a little girl. I'm a _mage _for Maker's sake. My spells are meant for me to protect myself with them. I. Don't. Need. You."

"And I don't need you," Hawke leans in close, nose nearly touching hers. "End of story, Bethany. This isn't a discussion. This is an order."

She moves so quick that Fenris can't lift a finger to help. With speed that only Hawke has ever exhibited, she cocks back her fist and smashes the palm of her deadly hand into her brother's nose. The crunch is audible, and Hawke stumbles back with a groan, clutching his face in pain. Sebastian reaches out for her as she turns on her heel and runs away, robes streaming behind her.

"Ah, damn it," Hawke stands up and shakes the blood from his hand, crimson drops flying everywhere. Fenris touches his shoulder. "Is it broken?"

The bone is definitely cracked and off center. Blood rushes from the sight of injury, over his mouth and down his neck. He groans again as Fenris examines it. "Yes," is his quiet reply. "It's broken."

"Damn that girl to the Void," he swears, tenderly touching his nose. "Why does she always go for my face? Doesn't she know my rugged good looks are all I have?"

"Hawke," Isabela sighs, "stop trying to be funny, or I'll break it again." She rubs at her forehead.

Hawke turns to Sebastian. "Go after her, will you? Tell her I'm bleeding. Profusely. And that we're not done talking." The prince heads off in the direction she ran without a word.

Fenris shrugs off his shirt and presses it to Hawke's face, sopping up the blood.

"Ow," Hawke moans.

* * *

><p><strong>I knew where this story was going to go front to finish from the very beginning. It's nice to see it wrapping up. I wish Hawke's siblings had more screen time. Especially poor, misguided Carver that I give to the Grey Wardens in every playthrough. Thanks for reading. Review please.<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

**Title: Paradise for Lesser Men**

**Rating: M**

**Summary: The chantry is destroyed. Hawke and Fenris find solace on an abandoned farm. MaleHawke/Fenris**

**A/N: Thanks for reading. Review please.**

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 9<span>

Hawke is kneeling by the river, cupping soothing water over his busted nose. Pink, diluted blood dribbles into the stream, washed away by the current. Fenris offers his stained shirt wordlessly, and the Champion uses it to dry his face. The bone is askew, and the tissue is reddening and swelling. He has yet to snap it back into place. Whether because he knows how much it will hurt or because he hasn't thought of it yet, Fenris doesn't know. Nevertheless, it remains crooked.

Hawke sits back on his haunches and sighs, shoulders sagging. "I shouldn't have been so hard with her. She is a Hawke, after all."

"I have never seen you treat your sister like that," Fenris says quietly, watching the swirling water. It's not as though Fenris has seen Hawke with his sister very much. He spent most of their first year together brooding and planning dastardly revenge in his mansion. Only when Bethany was taken did the two of them begin to get closer. Fenris didn't see her again until Meredith went insane.

"I thought that if I seemed adamant she would back down," Hawke confesses with a vague gesture of his hand. "'I'm big brother, so I win by default'. That sort of thing. I get so wrapped up in trying to protect her that I forget she isn't helpless." He touches his broken nose and winces.

"She can't come with us," Fenris says softly, turning his head to look at Hawke. "If she does, she'll be hurt. Killed, even. The Circle has kept her sheltered, and she hasn't seen the things you and I have." As much as he hates mages, the thought of a gang of Templars stealing off with Bethany in the night to rape and kill makes him angry beyond belief and frightened at the prospect.

"'Us'?" Hawke blinks at him in surprise. "I didn't think it would be that easy."

Fenris sighs. "Why fight the inevitable? If you are going, then so am I." He has always followed Hawke with little questioning, even when it endangered his lover's life. This time, it seems just as real as the day that he decided to take on the entire Templar order to protect the sad Circle of Kirkwall. It's against what he believes, but he won't abandon Hawke. He will go when he is called and do his best to keep the man alive.

"And I am, too," Isabela chimes from behind, and Fenris turns around to see her standing at the edge of the forest with her hands on her hips.

Hawke frowns, glancing back. "No, you aren't. Not anymore than Bethany."

The pirate snorts and comes closer, swinging her arms back and forth. "I'm not as innocent as dear, sweet Bethany. I know pain and desertion and betrayal. Void, do I know betrayal. Besides, you'll need a ride."

"To where?"

"Ferelden, of course," she rolls her eyes, sitting on her knees beside Hawke. "Your first step should be to petition the king for refuge. Asylum. Whatever you call it. He didn't seem like a mage hater."

"You've been thinking on this," Fenris accuses.

"I have," she replies, smiling. It doesn't reach her eyes. "Look, I know Hawke. I know he's not going to be content to sit back and watch the world burn. He's crazy like that. He needs to do something, and…well, the mages need him. Or else they'll all die."

Hawke gently lays his hand on her forearm. "I can't ask you to do this."

"You're not," she winks. "I promised you this time I would be there for you. I won't run. Not again. This time I help you."

Just as he starts to smile, Isabela reaches up and wraps her fingers around his nose, twisting sharply. The crunch as it pops back into place echoes sickeningly off the trees, and Hawke swears loudly enough that a few birds take off in the distance. The pirate starts laughing so hard that even Fenris cracks a smile, hiding it politely behind his hand as more blood dribbles over Hawke's lips and chin, falling into the water.

"Maker's breath, I hate you. You're an evil woman," he grouses painfully, leaning over the river. Fenris puts a hand on the back of his neck and wipes the blood with his shirt.

"You love me, and you know it," she chuckles. "Anyway, you look ridiculous with a broken nose. I can hardly take you seriously."

Hawke groans and washes his face with the river water. "Still a dirty trick, Rivaini," he complains. Fenris has broken his nose a few times and knows the pain that comes with it. Still, it will heal better now that Isabela has reset the bone, so he keeps quiet.

"Whatever," she leans sideways so that her head his horizontal to the water, black hair falling over her shoulder. "So I'm going, then. What do we do about Bethany and Sebastian?"

"Hawke's original plan is a good one if we can get the both of them to cooperate," Fenris peeks at her through his snowy hair, setting his shirt in his lover's lap. Hawke's bloodied hand catches his and squeezes the fingers lightly. "Sebastian has shown himself a traitor when it counts, and Bethany is not made for war. They can't come with us."

"Sebastian already agreed from what I saw this morning," Isabela frowns at Hawke. "The only problem is your sister. Why she won't stay behind with that mouth-watering, sexually frustrated Chantry brother all to herself is absolutely beyond me. I'd just jump at the chance." Her eyes take on a glossy, distant look, and Hawke snaps his fingers in front of her face.

"Focus, Isabela," he tells her with a small trace of amusement.

"Well, what in the name of the Void is wrong with her?" she demands. "He's cute, polite, a gentleman—which is good if you like that sort of thing—, a prince, a devout servant of the same god she worships, an archer, and an absolute sweetie with powerful hips and an absolutely perfect—"

Hawke grabs her around the ankle and tips her from her precarious perch into the water just before she can finish. The splash rains down on the both of them as Fenris gives a chuckle at Isabela's loud screech of surprise. She surfaces, spitting water and blinking droplets from her eyelashes. With her clothes wet, it leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, every inch of cloth clinging seductively to her curves and breasts. Not that the two of them haven't seen her naked far too many times.

"We get it," Hawke smiles at her. "He's attractive."

"You ass," she hisses, climbing out onto the bank like a drenched cat. She stays on her knees for a moment longer than necessary, brushing her thigh against Hawke's arm before getting to her feet and spreading her arms. "I'm soaked."

Hawke admires her, eyes roving. "I cannot imagine what happens when you fall overboard on your ship."

"They ravage me, of course," she winks, wringing out her hair. She closes her eyes. "Until the Maker changes water into sweat."

All three of them turn their heads when they hear someone tentatively clearing her throat. Bethany stands there in her battle robes, the artificial azure so out of place among brown and green earth and trees. Her black hair is still mussed from sleeping, wild around her face. She appears uncertain, teeth sunk into her bottom lip as she takes a step away from the forest. Sebastian appears at her side with his bow strung across his back, a hand coming to rest on her shoulders. All eyes zero in on that simple gesture of intimacy.

"Isabela, Fenris," the mage nods her head, cheeks pink. "I want to speak to my brother. Alone, please."

"I don't think that's the safest course," Hawke jokes, but his eyes are guarded. Her blush spreads to her slender throat, and Fenris's eyes dart to her hand where blue light gathers around delicate fingertips. It's a healing magic, one that Anders used often enough around them for him to recognize it. She holds the appendage out, palm up, wiggling her fingers. An invitation.

"A gesture of good will?" she raises her eyebrows.

Hawke sighs and gets to his feet, meeting her halfway with his arms out. "Come here, Sister."

She flies into his arms so quickly that Fenris nearly misses it. Isabela slinks around the embracing siblings to press her slicked fingers against Sebastian's cheek and lead him away from the woods nearer to the bank, a water nymph catching her prey with a wink and a pretty glance. Fenris stands and brushes the dirt from his calves, bristling as the archer appears at his shoulder.

"I lost my temper," Bethany says against his ear, leaning back and cupping her hand around her brother's nose. "I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry," Hawke grasps her wrist. The ethereal light outlines his facial features, setting them off with an eerie glow. As each second ticks by, his voice is become less nasal and restrained. "You're not a child. I shouldn't treat you as one."

"But you do," she accuses bitterly. "You do it all the time, and you make sure that the others do it, as well." Over Hawke's shoulder, she shoots all three of them a glare.

Hawke's thumbs come up to wipe the tears sliding down her cheeks. "I love you," he whispers fiercely in her ear, and Fenris turns his head. This is too intimate a conversation for him to hear. For any of them to hear. "I know I don't tell you enough, but I do. With all my heart. Mother, Father, Carver…Maker, Bethany, you're the last bit of family I have."

The blue disappears to reveal healed tissue, not a blemish nor a pore out of place. Bethany's long fingers clamp instead around Hawke's shoulder, her glimmering eyes searching. "Don't you understand?" she implores. "You're my brother. The last of _my_ family. How would you feel if I went off to fight this war and forbid you from going with me?"

"You know how I would feel."

"Let me help," she says almost desperately. "Don't leave me again. I can't bear to watch you take off and never come home."

He cups his hands around her face, her smooth face near perfect against his lighter, scarred hands. "We won't have a home if I don't do this."

"Please," she begs, and the tears are falling in earnest now, too frequent for Hawke to wipe them away. "Please, Maker, please."

Fenris sees his face and the torment in his eyes. For a moment he looks truly torn, almost as if he's considering it. The elf feels his pain, but he can't allow Hawke to say yes. She's too vulnerable. War will break her tender heart, her rare innocence. Nothing is worth that. Despite all that the Hawke family has suffered, she still believes that people can be trusted, that there isn't a blackness swirling in every man's heart. Fenris can't remember ever feeling that way. It is a precious thing that is worth preserving.

"I…" Hawke starts but cuts himself off. Bethany sees a weakness in his defense.

"Please, Brother," she says again, more resolutely. "Please."

Her brother's resolve is breaking apart at the seams, and Fenris sees it happening. He meets Isabela's uncertain eyes, her sensual lips set into a firm frown. Sebastian appears concerned, mouth open as if in disbelief. Together, the pirate and the elf march forward, and each set one hand on Hawke's shoulder. As if awakening from a trance, Hawke blinks and stares at them in alarm.

"No," Fenris says to Bethany, triggering his tattoos.

"I'm so sorry, Kitten," Isabela bites her trembling lower lip, leather gloves squealing faintly as she tightens her grip.

It is Fenris's fervent hope that seeing the two of them will remind him of what a life of hard warfare and pain can do to a person. He is scarred and branded like an animal. His cynical mind is a product of a dangerous life, his guarded demeanor instinct after years of physical and mental abuse. Isabela is another perfect example. She wears her scars on the inside, hidden carefully behind breathtaking smiles and witty banter.

Bethany would experience the same things as a Tranquil slave. The only difference would be that she couldn't despair about it, couldn't mourn the loss of her memories like Fenris did for years. She wouldn't feel her brother's tender touches or loving kisses. He would never wipe away her tears again, because she would never cry. To not see her pretty face twisted in pain or brightened with joy would be beyond what the rest of them could take.

Fenris is part of the family now, and he must help protect what is left of it.

"Whatever you think now," Fenris tells her in a gruff voice with a tinge of sympathy, "this is the best choice."

Hawke shuts his eyes for the longest time. When he opens them, there's no hesitance. "They're right. You'll stay here with Sebastian." His voice takes on the hard, unyielding tone of that morning.

She jerks away as if slapped. "How can you do this to me?" she demands, staring at the three of them. "You're _worse than the Templars_!"

"Stop it," Sebastian says, storming forward and gripping her shoulders. "How could you say such when you know what has happened to your family? To your father? If you go, you will be made Tranquil, raped, or killed. Maybe all three."

She shoves at him. "You're one to talk. Why don't you just run back to Starkhaven if you're so ready to take prisoners?"

"I asked him to do this," Hawke tells her fiercely. "Take out your anger on me, not him."

"He agreed," she spits.

"Yes, because he wants you safe," Isabela rolls her eyes. "Really, you're acting like an idiot. Why would you _want _to stomp through mud and marsh trying to find a bunch of ragged mages to save? When you could stay here in this cozy little nook with _that_?" She wiggles her fingers vaguely at the prince.

"The Divine is going to wage holy war," Sebastian sighs. "If you go, you'll die for sure. Kirkwall will probably be razed. You might not like this, Bethany, but it's your only chance at survival."

"Maybe I don't want to live if my brother dies!" she screams so loudly that the rest of them blink in shock. Hawke pulls Sebastian away from her. "What do_ I_ have if he dies? What have _any of us_ got? He's the entire reason we're friends at all!" She points a finger at him, tears dripping off the end of her chin. "Why aren't you three more protective of him? Huh?"

In the silence that follows, Isabela picks at her clinging clothing. Fenris raises an eyebrow at them. Isn't it so very obvious? "Because we know nothing can stop him," he tells her quite plainly.

"Sister, I'm coming home," Hawke insists. "I swear. Fenris wouldn't let me do otherwise. I'm coming home."

She wipes at her eyes almost violently, staring at the ground. "I get so very tired of being baby sister that everyone has to protect," she admits sullenly.

Fenris feels for her. He does, really. He knows that he wouldn't be able to bear it if Hawke went off on some lost cause to fight without him, not that the rogue _could_. Fenris would follow at any cost, and there would be such a reckoning for Hawke once he caught up. That fight would be a never-ending battle. Thankfully, though, Hawke learned long ago that Fenris could protect himself.

"Bethany," Hawke says, putting his arm around her shoulders and gesturing with his hand toward the trees, "come with me. Now that you've calmed down, I want to talk to you." He looks pointedly at Isabela. "Alone."

The pirate twirls her hand around and bows dramatically in sarcastic supplication. Fenris drifts away toward the river as the two siblings head into the trees. Sebastian watches with trepidation and something more. He has every right to. Agreeing to be a part of Hawke's plan intertwined his life with hers. He is her safeguard now. If she agrees.

Isabela slumps down next to Fenris, beginning to wring out her hair again even though it's no longer dripping. Butting her shoulder against his, she smiles. "Two sovereigns if she says yes."

* * *

><p>"They've been talking for over an hour," Isabela whines, banging her head lightly against the side of the barn. The heat of the sun has created a fine sheen of sweat all over her body, the light catching and making her glisten. Sebastian is sitting next to her, dozing lightly against her shoulder while Fenris paces and wears a trench into the ground. "How much convincing does it take?"<p>

"A lot, apparently," Fenris bites out irritably, digging his blunt nails further into his upper arms. For some reason, he is nervous. Hawke can be damn persuasive when he wants to be—he once convinced an Antivan wine merchant that he was royalty and demanded free wine delivered to his house—but their entire plan rests on Bethany's tiny shoulders. The only other option is to tie her to the bed and disappear.

"This is her life," Sebastian says with his eyes closed, and the pirate glances at him in surprise. "How much convincing would you need to watch your family walk into a war and stay behind where you couldn't protect them?" He cracks an eye to see her face.

"Lazy sod," she sniffs, ignoring his question. "I thought you were asleep." She promptly butts his cheek with her shoulder, and he sits up straight with a graceless stretch. Twig is sprawled on the ground a few feet from the elf's pacing, huffing softly every once in a while and snuffling in the dirt. He ran out of the house earlier with a dead rat clutched between his powerful jaws. It explains where he was that morning.

"Do you think Hawke can make her stay?" Sebastian wonders aloud, pulling his legs up against his chest and blinking blearily at the sky.

Isabela snorts. "Haven't you learned by now? Hawke can do anything."

Fenris turns his head toward the sky to block out their conversation, shielding his eyes from the blaring sun. It's midday now, and the birds are chirping in earnest. Trees sway and leaves rustle in a light wind coming from the North, but the breeze is too humid to offer any type of cool relief. Dressed in his heavy metal armor, Fenris feels a trickle of sweat slide down his back, his hair slick against his forehead.

"Yes," Sebastian muses comfortably, the hot sun sparkling off his white armor. "I suppose you are right. What reason do we have to doubt our Champion now?"

Twig gives a soft woof in response, tail thudding against the earth and stirring up dust. Fenris ceases his endless pacing and walks toward the cool shade of the barn, unstrapping his heavy sword to lean it against the wood. His reflection is distorted in the dark surface of the weapon.

The thought of the war weighs heavily on his mind, as well. Unless the Divine deigns it necessary to raze Kirkwall to the ground, there will be no battles. No great armies fighting against one another. It will be a war of guerilla tactics and flight plans. They will be spending the next few years rescuing mages and creating safe havens for them in lands where they will barely be tolerated. With so many frightened mages in one place, they'll need Templars to control them or suffer a legion of blood mages and abominations.

"I'm going to the river," he announces quietly and retreats in that direction, leaving his sword behind in the shade. Isabela shakes her head and shouts something at him, but he doesn't pay any attention. The grass is warm and crisp under his toes, baked almost until it's brittle. Twig jerks awake excitedly and sidles up to trot at his heels.

At the bank, he kneels and washes his face. Just a few feet down is where Hawke sat earlier that day, cupping water over his nose and complaining. His mind drifts back to the siblings. Fenris doesn't pretend to know about their personal lives—he's never really spoken much to Bethany or Hawke about it—but he's certain that Bethany doesn't throw punches often. The girl wears her regret in her eyes.

Twig flops down on the grass with a huff, dangling one paw in the stream. Fenris runs his hand along the great beast's back, feeling the fine, smooth texture. With the lulling trickle of the stream and the decidedly cooler temperature down by the water, Fenris actually manages to fall asleep. And it's with his head bobbing forward on his chest and one of his hands propped up on Twig's head that Hawke finds him and startles him awake.

Hawke grabs his shoulders and shakes gently, startling him so badly that his tattoos come to life.

"Hey, hey, sorry," the human says in his ear, kissing the tip as Fenris relaxes. "Shouldn't be falling asleep so close to the water. You're going to fall in." Instead of sitting beside him, Hawke wraps his arms around Fenris's thin torso and rests his chin on one shoulder. The strong scent of alcohol makes Fenris wrinkle his nose as fingers bury themselves in his hair, gently scratching his scalp.

"You've been drinking," he accuses with some surprise.

Hawke's laugh is a little breathless, and he feels the smile against his cheek. "Of course. How else was I supposed to convince my baby sister we weren't going to die?"

Though it is a distinct possibility, he bristles a little at how casually it's said. Sighing, he leans back into the searching hands, a little bit of stubble grazing his neck as Hawke breathes him in. He can't have been asleep long as the sun has hardly moved, and Twig is still napping soundly beside him. Hawke's plate armor digs painfully into his back, but he doesn't mind. He blinks sleepily at the sun.

"So you managed it?" he asks without bothering to hide his apprehension. Fingers on his stomach curl, nails against his mesh torso.

"Naturally," the human breathes with a slight laugh. "This time tomorrow, we'll be on our way to Ferelden to petition the king for asylum, at Isabela's suggestion."

Fenris perks up. "Isabela _is_ coming with us then?"

"Of course," he replies. "How could I leave her behind? Besides, Sebastian and Bethany will have enough sexual tension in the air without her reminding them of it every three minutes."

"You have a low opinion of Sebastian's self-control."

"My sister is beautiful," he says matter-of-fact with only a small shrug of his shoulders. "He'd have to be stupid to stay celibate now that the chantry and his god have essentially abandoned him to the mages."

Deft fingers pick idly at the buckles around his waist and shoulders holding his steel carapace together. When the piece of battle equipment falls into his lap, Hawke's hand slides up the plane of his flat, taut abdomen. He's hardly instigating anything heated, just touching. Fenris falls into the casual embrace before he can stop himself, suddenly feeling rather weary despite his nap. The day is still hot, and it's a bit uncomfortable having a living furnace snuggled against his back.

"Why doesn't this feel like a victory?" he asks Hawke, the human's nose against his snowy, blonde hair.

"Because it's not," Hawke whispers back. "We just signed our own death warrants, and we've turned down a skilled mage's help while doing it. Bethany could have replaced Anders. She could have healed a lot of people and done a lot more good than hiding out here waiting for me to say it's safe."

"Then why didn't we take her with us?" he knows the answer before he asks it.

"Because I love her," is his simple reply as he tilts Fenris's head back, "and she could be dissuaded."

Fenris doesn't miss the implied, "You couldn't" as Hawke seals their mouths together in a chaste kiss that lasts only a few seconds. The taste of whiskey lingers sharp and bitter in this mouth, and he vaguely wonders just how much Hawke had to drink. Bethany can get drunk on a thimbleful of wine. For the smell and taste to linger, he has to have drunk more than that.

Of course, he is leaving his sister behind in the hands of a man who has proven when it counts that he isn't trustworthy or loyal to his friends. If anyone deserves to drink, it's Hawke.

"This is going to be hard," Hawke whispers in his ear, nibbling on the lobe.

"Yes, it is."

His lover laughs. "Blunt as always. That's what I love about you. Don't let me talk myself into grand illusions, okay? Don't let me hope that we'll win." Sobering, he crosses his arms over Fenris's chest, pulling the elf flush against him.

Twig lifts his head to peer about before rolling over onto his back and slapping a paw over his eyes with a groan. His thick, extra skin hangs about him like a heavy coat, the fur a dark brown with filth and smatters of blood from his kills.

"That dog," Hawke shakes him. "What are we going to do with him?"

"He'll grow," Fenris says, scratching the animal behind the ears. "One day he'll be as protective and fierce as Quill."

"More so growing up during a war," the other man sighs. "I suppose we'll have to stop lazing about in the sun like a bunch of housecats and get into shape again. At least, I will. You haven't gained a pound of fat." A finger pokes him in the ribs, and Fenris scowls.

He shoves the hand away. "Neither have you. We have only been here for a few weeks."

Hawke smiles against his ear, but it's sad. He can tell by the melancholy timbre of his voice. "It feels like minutes."

For once, Fenris can't argue. "It does."

Cool wind blows across the water, sending ripples charging against the stream. The scent of earth and clean water is refreshing and will be sorely missed once they start out on the road again. Hawke's heart is powerful against his back, beating with the same willpower and determination that it always has. Lips press against his own pulse point, and he tilts his neck just slightly. To think that he is so trusting now as to bare his neck to a man more than capable of cutting it is just a little frightening. That's the thrill of it, though.

Hawke sets the carapace in Fenris's lap to the side and takes a deep breath. The metal glints in the afternoon sun, scarred where knives came too close and arrows penetrated too deep. Fenris sets his fingers on the cold, reflective surface. It's been a while since he's worn his armor for any real cause. The thought of doing something again, having a purpose, kindles a dark place inside of him that loves the fight, the kill. He's excited about the war just as he is apprehensive. There's so much to lose but everything to gain.

Coming to this place was such a perfect accident. It allowed for them to seek a moment's respite after so much death and destruction. It gave Hawke a project when he needed one most. Fenris is reluctant to leave it. Of course, they can't stay. They aren't meant for domestic lives of peace and tranquility. The two of them are built for war and death. The house belongs to a powerful young woman who would make a wonderful and caring mother. Maybe it even belongs to an ex-prince ready to prove himself one of the people. Maybe they can discover the secrets that elude Hawke and Fenris.

"Do you want to stay?" Hawke asks him in a breathy, wistful voice. The question nettles Fenris in a way he doesn't expect.

"It is done," he replies gruffly. "Let it be."

"I want to stay," Hawke confesses almost sheepishly, the scent of alcohol clinging in his hair, even to his skin. "Here, with you, things weren't so complicated." The pain lacing the words like a poison head straight for Fenris's heart, and he softens.

Sympathetic, he touches one hand. "Life for you has never been simple."

"For either of us." Then suddenly Hawke laughs, and the slow tension dissipates. "Since when did we become a couple of soft sods? Maker, if Varric were here, he'd never let us live this little moment down."

"You're drunk," Fenris smiles slightly in answer, and Hawke shifts so that the elf can see the liquid blue of his eyes. Stubble has begun to grow across his chin again, but his short hair is cropped out of his face. He looks just as he did in those early days when he, a refugee, extended a hand to a penniless slave with a sly grin and a sincere heart.

Hawke connects their mouths slowly, keeping his eyes open as Fenris's heart pounds in his chest. Fenris is staring into the blurry particles of the ocean, drowning in the heady scent of liquor and the steady heat of the day. They shift, and he's falling backwards onto springy grass as strong but gentle hands grasp his sides, and the human sighs against his mouth. The weight of another human being pressed up against him is delightful, and it sends a thrill straight through his spine. He shivers and wraps his arms around Hawke's neck, pulling him ever closer.

The sweetness is almost too much as Hawke separates and douses him with kisses, in his hair and across his lips and throat and chest. Calloused fingers slide over the exposed flesh of his belly as he gasps and breathes in the taste and smell of their coupling. Nails scratch too lightly. Breathless chuckles caress his skin, following the silken trail of Hawke's lips and tongue. Time seems to erode as Hawke spends less and less time focusing on getting to the very precipice as quickly as they possibly can. Instead, he drugs Fenris with kindness and emotion and love, forcing them to float in limbo.

By the time they are both spent and Hawke is lying beside him, breathing harshly the cooled air, Fenris can barely form coherent thoughts. He wipes his eyes with the palms of his hands and sucks in as much oxygen as he dares without hyperventilating. Hawke keeps a few inches distance between the two of them as they both try desperately to cool down.

Immediately after Fenris's breathing evens out and the droplets of sweat stop stinging his eyes, Hawke rolls them into the river. The elf doesn't fight. He knows what this is. It's one last respite, one last handful of mindless pleasure and paradise. When the war finally begins for them, there will be no time to focus on their tortured relationship which seems to mean so little to the rest of the world. After all, it's what Hawke wanted all along. A few moments of peace before it all begins again. Time to stop and look around. Time to love.

Fenris loses count how many times Hawke takes him. Against the trees, the grass, in the river, on the bank with water dripping from their soaked hair. Desperate clawing and biting and marking. Making love as Hawke never has before, with a sort of pained want and desire.

_Yes, catch these moments and hold them in for as long as we can, savoring them like the sweet smoke of a cigar._

Only when the stars are out does Isabela come hunting for them with a knowing smile on her full lips. She helps Hawke to his feet and kisses his cheeks, squeezing his hands with her dainty fingers. Hawke puts an arm around Fenris's shoulders and pulls him close so that he is a part of their tiny circle of nervous glances and excitement. The moon is high, and the breeze is cool. Leaves flutter in the air.

She says it with her eyes, but her voice is all the more lovely as it shapes the words, "It's time."

Hawke lets out a sigh and takes Fenris's hand. "Come then."

The walk back to the farm is tense and suspenseful. Hawke squeezes just a little too tightly, his head held high, his jaw clenched, eyes bright. Fenris feels an awful apprehension again as he glimpses Bethany and Sebastian in the distance, their silhouettes outlined by the low, orange glow of a fire in the main house. Isabela moves with sashaying hips and unbreakable confidence, and Fenris envies her freedom. She has nothing to lose, this pirate. She doesn't know what it's like to have a family, what it's like to leave them behind.

Hawke and Bethany embrace wordlessly, and Fenris flounders for something to say as Sebastian shakes his hand. It's all come on too fast. He isn't ready to depart. A chapter has been torn from this book. He and Hawke deserve more time. Bethany throws her arms around his shoulders, breasts pressing flush against him. Her heart hammers in her chest. He can feel it even through his armor plating as he curls his fingers in her fine black hair.

"Keep him safe," her lips press against his ear, and she's stepping back to stand at Sebastian's side. The prince and the refugee. The chantry brother and the mage. What a pair.

All of a sudden, they're on the march. Hawke has a backpack slung over his shoulder—Fenris can't even remember pulling on his own. Twig trots at their side, twisting his head inquiringly at both masters. He doesn't understand, but he soon will. Bethany's quiet sobbing can be heard even as they cross the field, headed toward the ocean. Isabela's ship waits in port. She's giving them a respectable distance, trailing behind and keeping quiet for once.

Hawke reaches out and takes Fenris's hand as they once again lose everything.

* * *

><p><strong>School's kicking my ass. I've got advanced placement courses all year, but I have some time in Newspaper to write. So I'm sorry. Really. It's over, but I may write another story in this universe. Thanks for reading. Review please.<strong>


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